


How to keep your witcher safe

by Vale11



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Dark Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, I need a nap, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, They need a nap, and geralt loves him back, because jaskier loves his witcher, everyone needs a fucking nap what the hell, geralt missed the memo that would have let him know jaskier loves him, it will be eventually jaskier/geralt, jaskier takes care of an emotionally stunted witcher, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 44,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22881592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vale11/pseuds/Vale11
Summary: Or, how Jaskier takes care of his witcher in every way possible, sometimes saving him without even noticing.A fuckload of oneshots.And have mercy, I'm Italian. Just saying.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 200
Kudos: 665





	1. Burn it down

Drank so much last night I think that I drowned  
But now my cup is empty  
No one has seen my will around  
Now my heart is aching  
Sometimes I fall asleep for days  
But my bed is empty  
I know I am too set in my ways  
Tell all I am okay  
So burn it down  
Discover the dusk of your day  
Has reached its dawn  
So burn it down  
Remember to find a new to carry on  
Alter Bridge - Burn it down

Witchers are lonesome creatures, both by nature and inevitably: people don’t really want them around when there are no monsters to kill. Geralt learnt it the hard way, and it’s a lesson he never lets himself forget. No matter how eager a prostitute may look or how happy some villagers are when he brings them the proof of a well done hunt: they don’t really want him there. So he keeps to himself. He’s been doing that for ages, and it works perfectly for him.  
Well, not really, maybe. Not all of the times. He has to make it work anyway, because there’s no other way. He stops talking when it’s not strictly necessary, stops looking for people, stop looking at people. He spends more time in the company of the monsters he hunts than with humans, and starts to see the similarities.   
Monsters are better in their own way: they kill out of hunger, rarely for fun. They don’t discriminate, don’t have a ranking of what they like to eat the most. Lots of people think that they must really love the taste of children’s flesh, but they’re wrong: kids are just easier to get, that’s all. They don’t care if you’re old or young, rich or poor, nice or ugly or a son of a bitch: to them you’re just meat. Just their next meal. And, sometimes, Geralt can relate better to that than to complications and classism humans seem to live for.  
Honestly? The word “human” sounds like an offence to him, sometimes. Their smell is greasy and it bothers him, after days spent immersed in the earthy smells of the woods. Their voices are too loud, their laughers grate on his nerves, all it takes to make him go rigid and irritate him is the smallest brush against his skin. He forces himself not to recoil when someone clasps his shoulder to get his attention, or (rarely) congratulate him for a well done job.  
He knows humans, and is perfectly aware that he’s not one of them, not anymore. He gave his humanity away, his dark hair and blue eyes forgotten, to turn into the most hated guardian ever, his race despised and feared but needed nonetheless. Humans want him to risk his life for them and then disappear, possibly quickly and without much of a fuss.  
Lethal, silent and fearsome: not so different from his monsters, then. And humans seem to agree: witcher is how they call him on a good day, mutant is just one of the nicest names he’s been called on bad ones, when a hunt goes awry or something doesn’t go as predicted or ordered. When he gets back covered in blood and dirt, pissed at everyone and everything because, really, some people just didn’t deserve to be alive.  
Why does he keep on saving them, hm?  
Because it needs to be done, and he needs it all to make sense. His life, his mutation, his fucking training, his silence. His solitude and his wounds need to make sense or nothing will make sense anymore. He can’t stop being a witcher, he’ll have to die like one. And it won’t be of old age, of that he’s pretty much sure.  
He has learnt to appreciate his solitude and the silence that follows after a while: noisy towns make him tense, ready to fight at every small sound, hand on the hilt of his sword. Taverns make him feel claustrophobic at best, and queasy with agitation and stress, but that’s where the alcohol is so...yes, he guesses taverns are something he’ll have to bear if he wants something to drink. Taverns are also where he finds most of his contracts: he doesn’t even have to advertise himself, his appearance does it for him with his eyes, hair, swords and...general attire. And it’s always the same: he sits down in a corner booth and people will start looking at him, throwing glances, start whispering, ignorant of his enchanted hearing. And then the bravest of the lot will dare to come closer, will clear their throat and ask for his help promising a reward for the creature of the day.   
When it’s good.  
Sometimes people look at him. Whisper. And then someone gets in his face, usually someone pretty drunk, and the words are always the same.  
“We don’t want you here, mutant”.  
Sometimes he answers with a well aimed punch on the nose of the man, that will tumble backwards like some broken doll. Those are the good days. But it usually means that there are no monsters in town, so why should he stay? For the adorable company? Usually he just sighs, drinks his tankard dry, leaves a couple of coins on the table and leaves.  
He cold kill them all, decimate the town, destroy their lives. He could.  
He never does. Sometimes doesn’t even reacts if not with rolling his eyes so hard he can see his own brain.  
He told Renfri that he keeps his head down, sometimes, because he wants to be different from the beast they think he his, but the truth is that he’s learnt not to care anymore. Let them think what they want, it’s still him they’ll have to call should some creature decide to feast on their kids. And he’ll be there, sure, but will make sure that they’ll pay for how they treated him. He’s a witcher, for fuck sake, not a damned saint.   
And then he came, with his blue eyes and ridiculous clothes. And no fear.  
No. Fucking. Fear.   
At all.  
He found him in a tavern, obviously, and when he came close he thought that the bard might need him for some job.  
No, the guy wanted his opinion on his performance.  
Conversation.  
Really?  
Geralt would have preferred dining with a kikimore back then, to someone inclined to start an actual conversation with him. He wasn’t ready for that man and, maybe, that’s what saved him, stopping him from sending the bard away, condemning himself to that solitude. That silence.  
Jaskier was a nuisance at best, a problem at worse, at the beginning. His beloved silence broken, his space invaded. Even Roach seemed perplexed by that strange guy that kept on trying to get closer and closer to her witcher without on ounce of fear or self preservation instinct. He waltzed around Geralt without a care, touched him without restraint, spoke to him as if he were...like him. Not human, no, but not a monster or a bizarre creature either. Just Geralt.  
And, Jaskier is the only one that bothered to discover his given name, and to use it. No witcher, no mutant: to him, he was just Geralt.   
It feels like he’s existing again. Like being finally acknowledged by someone not because of the services he provides, but for himself.   
And it’s so weird that Geralt really doesn’t know what to do with that. He spills it out one evening half drunk on awful ale, and sees Jaskier smile.   
“You are you, Geralt. Why should I treat you differently?”  
You are you. He is. He has a right to be himself, in Jaskier’s eyes, and it’s something that leaves him speechless. Well, more than usual.  
The bard must notice, because his smile fades and a confused frown appears on his face, pulling down the corner of this lips.   
“Geralt” He asks around a mouthful of beer “You know that, right?”  
Geralt just eyes him, yellow gaze still lucid but confused and a bit lost.  
“What?” He mutters, not looking at him.  
“That I care about you. That you’re my friend. You know that, right?”  
Does he know? He toys with the concept and with his tankard, almost empty, with fingers dirtied with blood that won’t leave anymore.  
“I’m a witcher, Jaskier” He exhales after a while “You know that, right?”  
If it was meant to put out the bard, it didn’t work: Jaskier shrugs and takes another sip, blue eyes never leaving him.  
“I noticed” He answers “So what?”  
Geralt looks at him as if he had sprouted another arm. How can he be so naive? So...innocent?  
“I’m a witcher. I’m an...instrument. I don’t...”  
Jaskier slams his drink on the table, spilling beer on the wooden surface and causing a few heads to turn.   
“Don’t you dare say it, Geralt” He threatens, index finger in the witcher’s face “You’re no instrument, you’re you. You have your personality, as enormously flawed as it can be, and I happen to like you. And you may even be convinced that you don’t need a friend, but I don’t care because I’m your friend anyway. You’re not just a witcher, you’re Geralt. Got it?”  
Geralt’s eyes cross, trying to follow the finger that Jaskier is weaving in front of his face, but then the words sink in.  
And they render him speechless again.  
Jaskier keeps on staring at him, waiting for an answer, so he clears his throat and looks down at his empty tankard.  
“Alright”  
He mutters, voiceless, and the bard’s eyes get huge.   
“Alright?” He repeats, and Geralt huffs.  
“Don’t make me repeat myself”.  
“Oh, sure. Of course” Jaskier smiles, all crinkled blue eyes “Sorry, won’t do it again”.  
It’s a lie, and he knows that. Geralt feels his lips pull upwards and gives in to the temptation, just as Jaskier asks for some more beer.


	2. Salt and sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beast lands close to Jaskier, too close to Jaskier for Geralt’s likings, and he leaps over the fire and in front of the bard, protecting him from the growling animal he threw inadvertently in his direction.  
> “Stay back!” He roars, unsheathing his silver sword. He doesn’t want to kill it, not if he can avoid it, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to manage both letting it live and protecting the bard. He has a plan but it’s crazy, foolish and reckless.   
> It’s perfect.

Sooooo we have monsters in Italy, too. I gave it a go, and let Geralt meet one.

I'll be your friend in the daylight again  
There we will be, like an old enemy  
Like the salt and the sea

Salt and sea - Lumineers

He’s so used to hunt that, sometimes, he forgets that sleeping in the woods means accepting the risks to turn from hunter to prey. And it’s a mistake he’s not willing to pay, not at the bard’s expenses at least.   
They’ve been camping from half an hour when something starts feeling very wrong.  
The forest goes silent.  
Geralt gets tense almost immediately, years and years of experience and training kicking in making his nerves fizzle and his eyes scan every shadow hidden in the trees. Jaskier, Melitele bless him, keeps on rambling as if nothing had happened, as if Geralt wasn’t there, looking ready to pounce, eyes, darting around.   
“Jaskier”  
He mutters, one hand on the hilt of the silver sword, the other raised to silence the bard. Jaskier stops mid sentence and turns around, huge blue eyes looking at him and then all around at the dark forest.  
“What is it?” He mouths, following Geralt’s order. It’s such a rare happening that the witcher feels his lips stretch in a smile, but the stillness around them is enough to sober him up immediately. He shakes his head, eyes still on the trees, and keeps silent.  
It’s deafening, that fucking silence.   
And then there is a crunching noise, and something bulky and black jumps out of the treeline, landing on his back.  
He’s glad it choose him as his prey, Jaskier couldn’t resist such an onslaught. But that thing is pinning his swords against his back, and his potions are out of reach. And he still doesn’t know what’s happening, and what exactly is the thing currently clawing at his shoulders.  
He’s been reckless, let his guard down for a few minutes, and here’s what happens when you make such a mistake in this line of work. Sure, it could have happened to every traveller, but the fact that it happened to them pisses him off immensely.   
Meanwhile, the thing on his back is not relenting, his swords are still trapped and now Jaskier is screaming something and the beast growls, claws lacerating his leather armour and skin altogether, and Geralt lets out a pained groan. He keeps his ground, falling means dying in those cases, and manages to smash the thing against a tree.  
It shrieks, disoriented, and its grip lessens enough to let Geralt throw it a good couples of meters away, reaching back with a straining arm and clawing at...matted fur and iron muscle.  
Claws, fur, huge, growling, in a forest. A Gigat.  
Geralt doesn’t have the time to think about how strange it is that such a huge feline, usually quite pacific and shy, has suddenly decided to attack them: they must have set camp too close to its den, and she’s probably just protecting her cubs. It makes the attack understandable, and the creature deadly and a fuckload more dangerous.   
They’re lucky it’s female, a male Gigat would have been even worse. They’re huge, and much more aggressive. Then again, a female with a litter is the most dangerous thing in the whole Continent.   
Anyway.  
The beast lands close to Jaskier, too close to Jaskier for Geralt’s likings, and he leaps over the fire and in front of the bard, protecting him from the growling animal he threw inadvertently in his direction.  
“Stay back!” He roars, unsheathing his silver sword. He doesn’t want to kill it, not if he can avoid it, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to manage both letting it live and protecting the bard. He has a plan but it’s crazy, foolish and reckless.   
It’s perfect.  
He dares a glance at Jaskier, still behind him, and tries to make him understand that he has to stay put, he can’t follow him, then grabs a flaming branch from the fire and runs in the direction the Gigat came from, where he supposes her puppies are.   
He hopes he’s right, or he’ll have left Jaskier alone with an angry, oversized cat.   
He hears Jaskier scream his name, but his voice is drowned by the noise of mighty paws scratching the ground, dead leaves crunching under her weight, and he knows he’s chosen the right course of action, attracting the beast as far from Jaskier as he can.   
The Gigat is not trying to be subtle anymore, not when she thinks that her pups might be in danger, and Geralt can hear her breath at his heels, her clawed paws leaving deep traces in the soft, humid earth.   
Then there a re a couple of seconds of silence.  
The Gigat jumps and lands on the witcher’s back, effectively trapping him down, claws piercing skin and muscles. She hisses and growls in Geralt’s ear, teeth and strong maw merely a few centimetres from his neck, and Geralt manages to land a hard nudge right in that open mouth with his left elbow. The skin of his arm breaks and his bone is probably cracked; the blow, reverberating all the way to his shoulder and neck, makes his teeth rattle in his skull. It’s a white explosion of pain that threatens to bring him down, but the Gigat feels the shock too.   
Maybe because one of her teeth is lodged in Geralt’s muscle now, ripped straight from her mouth.  
Shit, cleaning the wound is going to suck.  
The feline backpedals, and Geralt is on his feet running back to camp in no time, weaving the torch in front of the huge cat to keep her from following. When he gets there he’s elated to see that Jaskier has listened to him and is still in the clearing, close to the fire, keeping Roach calm. Everything is already packed.  
Melitele, he’s so happy to see him. And to see that he was smart enough to dismount their camp in record time.   
“We have to leave” He announces, winded, mounting Roach and helping the bard to get up behind him. He holds the reins out to him and hums, plucking the tooth out of his elbow with squelching noise and a pained grunt.  
“Geralt?” He hears Jaskier call, and Roach starts moving. The Gigat isn’t following them, and he’s starting to feel the pain and the fatigue from the fight. He’s exhausted, fucking shattered. Fighting gets harder when you don’t want to kill the monster. Just like Renfri. And no, Geralt, don’t funking go there. Not now.  
And then there are two hands on his shoulders, mindful of the wounds, pulling him backwards to rest against Jaskier’s chest. He’s scared the bard won’t be able to support his weight, but it looks like Jaskier is stronger than he looks.  
“Rest” Jaskier says in his ear keeping him close, stable and warm. He even takes hold of his wounded harm and helps him keep it raised, using it to keep the witcher even more pressed against his chest while he steers Roach with the other hand.   
“Rest” Jaskier repeats “I’ve got you, Geralt. I can keep you safe until we reach the next town”.  
And Geralt trusts him. Trusts someone else with his life for the first time in ages. And rests.


	3. The racing heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is a colourful form dancing in front of his eyes, contentment radiating from him as he takes mental note of everything he sees. He will write a song about this, Geralt is pretty sure of it as he trudges on behind his bard.  
> And he’s...perfect.

If I sow a wind now  
I will reap a storm  
You saw me sliding away from the sun  
And tomorrow  
Who will come  
And put their hand over mine

The racing heart - Katatonia

Being loners is not a prerogative of witchers and witchers only, but it’s surely one of their most remarkable traits. It’s not just a behavioural thing, learnt from years of being shamed and kept at arm length from people: towns are noisy places for someone with such enhanced senses, and big cities are nothing but a hurtful cacophony of sounds and awful smells.  
It’s good, then, that most of the stuff they hunt for a living likes to inhabit the woods, the swamps, the caves and other idyllic places. There are creatures in towns and cities, sure, but they’re usually less dangerous and more...domesticated. Especially by idiotic mages that, when the creature they trapped rebels, are oh so keen on calling for the help of a witcher: the very same kind of creature they’ve been looking down on for ages.  
So, as you can imagine, Geralt despises towns and hates cities. But, alas, Jaskier loves them fervently.  
He blooms, in there. He’s so much in his element that Geralt wonders it that’s what he looks like in the woods: his steps get surer and his gait bolder, just like Geralt’s steps drag behind him with the feeling of a man walking towards his own demise.  
He won’t tell him, anyway. Won’t spoil his fun or his happiness after having dragged him through mud and literal blood. He will suck it up. He’s good at that.  
Well, pun intended.  
The thing is that he really likes it when his bard looks so at ease: why should he ruin it for him? So he sits in his booth with his ale as Jaskier gets down to work, retelling his own version of their adventures because “respect doesn’t make history, Geralt” and, more often than not, he gets some new contract that will keep them on the road of a while. Better let Jaskier enjoy himself while he can, since he’s still so keen on following him everywhere.  
But tonight is just too much.  
There’s some kind of fair in town, everything is bright and colourful and oh, how he wishes he could enjoy it just as much as Jaskier does, at least for the bard’s sake, but the truth is that...it hurts.  
The lights make his eyes burn, the music and the noises are making him feel disoriented, and the smells are making him nauseous and hungry at the same time, which is never too pleasant.  
Which one should he follow? The need to fill his stomach or the need to empty it right there on the main road?  
Choices, choices.  
Jaskier is a colourful form dancing in front of his eyes, contentment radiating from him as he takes mental note of everything he sees. He will write a song about this, Geralt is pretty sure of it as he trudges on behind his bard.  
And he’s...perfect.  
Jaskier looks stunning, bathed in torch light, a smile on his lips, fingers hitching to play, a little jump in his gait, steps finally certain and free of the constant fear he must live in following Geralt in his travels between monsters, mages and elves. He nearly lost him to a pissed Djinn, and that’s something he’s not willing to forget easily.  
And what is he, following his little, jumping ball of light? Just a dark patch on the fine tapestry of the scene in front of him, clad in black, yellow eyed and armed to the bones, with the beginning of a killer headache building right above his left eye and the smell of blood following him everywhere. No wonder everyone gives him a wide berth, but that’s how he likes it. He wouldn’t be able to stand being smothered by the crowd like Jaskier does.  
“Geralt!”  
He hears Jaskier call, and his hand goes to the hilt of his iron sword. Silver for monsters, iron for humans. It’s an instinct, something so deeply rooted in him he can’t stop it, but Jaskier is just walking back towards him with some kind of sweets he must have just bought: the bard lifts what looks like a fried pastry and Geralt takes it in his mouth without even thinking about his nausea, or his nervousness. There’s just the sweet taste of that small thing in his mouth and Jaskier’s huge, blue eyes as he looks at the witcher’s lips accepting his treat and, for a second, everything is right in the world.  
“You look exhausted” Jaskier observes, smiling and wiping some sugar from Geralt’s stubble “We should go and find a room. A warm bath will do good to that headache of yours”.  
Geralt says nothing, but his stupor must be easy to detect because Jaskier laughs and loops his arm around his middle, steering him away from the crowd.  
“That little twitch you do with your eyebrows? Gives you away, my friend. And your eyes look ready to close on their own. So, as I just said, a warm bath and a decent bed should do the trick”.  
Geralt has to force hi vocal chords to work, stunned as he is.  
“You don’t have to...I know you like it, here”.  
“I happen to like you just a bit more” He winks, sending Geralt’s brain in overdrive “Besides, the fair will go on for three days, and I intend to fully enjoy it tomorrow. With you, should you feel like it.”  
“Hm. I might.”  
Jaskier is holding him now, the witcher’s head on his shoulder and talented fingers massaging the tense muscles of his neck, the other hand freeing Geralt’s hair from the leather strap that keeps them constrained, and Geralt’s arm snakes around the bard’s middle.  
“So, what do you think” Jaskier asks, pressing a kiss to his temple “Bath and a bed?”  
“Hm” Geralt nods “Sounds great”  
“Alright then”.  
Jaskier loops his arm around his middle again and steers him towards the inn at the end of the road, and if he manages to do that avoiding noisy people and crowds...well.  
He noticed, thinks Geralt.  
And he’s so grateful.


	4. The fighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s the Butcher of Blaviken! I know what he did!”  
> Jaskier takes a step back closer to Geralt, and feels the witcher tense up. His stomach plummets to his feet: “Say it again” He rasps “And I’ll have to rearrange your face”.

I will not hide my face  
I will not fall from grace  
I'll walk into the fire, baby  
All my life  
I was afraid to die  
And now I come alive inside these flames

The fighter - In this moment

They’re tired. Gods, how tired they are. Their boots weight a ton, filled with swamp water and rain, and Geralt could swear that his armour is crushing him, making it hard to breathe.  
Or maybe it’s the blow he took to his ribs. Who knows.   
Jaskier is not faring any better, drenched and dirty, with smudges of dirt on both cheeks. His wet hair make him look like a drowned cat, but Geralt suspects he mustn’t be a beauty either.   
“Melitele, Geralt” Jaskier mutters, one hand on Roach’s saddle for support “Are those houses? They look like houses to me. Am I hallucinating?”  
The witcher snorts.  
“That’s the village that hired us, Jaskier”  
“Oh” The bard hesitates, thinking about that us that Geralt just said. Then he twists his lips and moves one hand to protect his eyes from the neverending rain “Of course it is” He pats Roach on her back, smiling to the mare “You ready for a nice night in a warm stable, girl? I sure am. Ready, I mean. For a room, not a stable. Obviously”.  
He’s rambling, he knows he is, but judging by Geralt’s brief smile the witcher doesn’t seem to mind it. If he has to be honest the witcher looks awful: that blasted thing (what was it again? He’ll have to ask Geralt if he wants his song to make sense) didn’t want to die, and he can relate, really. Who would want to die like that, in a swamp and with a silver sword embedded in the gut? But, back to the point: the thing was awfully attached to life, and had fought with literal teeth and claws. Again: relatable. But a real pain in the witcher’s ass.   
Jaskier studies Geralt, and can see what’s wrong even if his companion refuses to tell him: broken ribs, or bruised at best. Headache, but he won’t know if he has a concussion until his eyes won’t be back to their regular yellow. They’re sexy, all pitch black like that, but Jaskier doesn’t think it’s the right moment to point it out. He’s favouring his right leg, but Jaskier will have to divest him of trousers and boots to check what’s wrong with that. A nice night in a decent room with a warm bath should definitely help.   
Them both: Jaskier feels drained, and is dreaming of getting clean and sleeping in a soft bed. Well, looks like he’ll have to revisit his plans, because the innkeeper of the only inn in town is a stupid fuckwit that won’t allow them in.  
Or, to be more precise: he’ll let Jaskier inside, especially if he’ll sing, but Geralt? No. The witcher will have to sleep in the stable, with the horses. And fuck if Jaskier will let it happen.  
“He’s not getting inside”  
“He just saved your village, you ungrateful asshole!”  
“He’s the Butcher of Blaviken! I know what he did!”  
Jaskier takes a step back closer to Geralt, and feels the witcher tense up. His stomach plummets to his feet: “Say it again” He rasps “And I’ll have to rearrange your face”.  
He won’t let anyone treat Geralt like that, won’t let anyone hurt him, and would act on his threat if not for Geralt’s hand on his shoulder.  
“Get in there” the witcher deadpans “I’ll be with Roach”.  
“What the fuck, Geralt?” Jaskier turns around facing him: there’s no emotion on Geralt’s face, and that’s how Jaskier understands how hurt he actually is. The bard takes a deep breath and faces the innkeeper again, keeping Geralt from leaving clenching his fingers around his leather sleeve. The witcher could free himself easily. He doesn’t even try to do it. The innkeeper looks satisfied at Geralt’s reaction, and it makes Jaskier’s blood boil.  
“It’s either the both of us” He says with a smile made of teeth “Or you’ll have lost two clients and the fuckload of money you could make with my performance”.  
The man looks at them and shakes his head again.  
“As I just said, I don’t want that beast in here”  
“Oh for fuck sake, he killed in self defence and saved a little girl, you damned...”  
“Well, witchers should defend people, not kill them! That’s what they’re paid for!”  
“Then maybe sometimes people are the actual monsters, ever thought about it?”  
Geralt sighs and looks ready to leave, throwing Jaskier inside with a thrust and going to sleep with Roach, downing a couple of potions for the pain and a swift healing hoping that he won’t have to stitch his own wounds. He could easily do it, but it’s never fun. And then a small hand lands on his arm. It’s a miracle he doesn’t flinch, tense as he is.   
“You can come to our place” A woman in her forties affirms “Both of you”.  
Geralt smiles, then proceeds to rip Jaskier from the man’s throat.  
-  
Ewa and her husband, Pavel, aren’t rich but managed to raise four kids and keep their farm going for years: they guide Geralt and Jaskier to the bar and up a ladder that witcher faces up with a pained grimace and a good number of grunts. He insisted for Jaskier to get up before himself, scared to fall and take the bard down with him, but Jaskier refused: he’s staying right behind him, ready to steady him should he weaver or lose his grip on the wood.   
There are two cots, upstairs, and a young man is finishing to set them up: he eyes Geralt with awe as they reach the second floor of the barn and runs down to gather water and supplies.   
“Alright” Jaskier mutters when the boy is back with what they need “Let’s see what that thing did to you”.  
Geralt eyes him, still emotionless, then starts on his armour and its fuckload of clasps and straps. Jaskier is quick to help him, letting him sit against the wall and looking up at him, one hand resting on his ankle ready to take of his boots.  
Geralt nods, and Jaskier starts pulling.  
“I swear, Geralt” He grumbles “There’s more water in your boots than back in that bloody swamp”.  
The witcher doesn’t even answer, teeth gritted and eyes screwed shut: they’re back to their usual golden hue now, the potions effect lessening.   
He starts on Geralt’s trousers, then, unfastening them and sliding them down his hips to reveal a bruised right leg, black and blue from hip to knee. The knee itself is swollen, either from a bad landing or a blow, Jaskier doesn’t know. He prods around the kneecap and Geralt grunts but keeps still, so he goes on: one hand checking, the other massaging the witcher’s shoulder.  
“Nothing broken, here” He concludes after a while, clapping his hands “I’ll make you the same green clay wrap and, if you stay put, you should be right as rain tomorrow with your witchery healing”.  
Geralt nods, fingers intertwining with the bard’s, and lets his head fall against the wall, eyes closed.  
Even his eyes look bruised, Jaskier thinks taking him in, and puffy. He doesn’t know if it’s the after effects of the potions or not, what he knows is that it’s been a while since Geralt has had a good rest. He won’t let him go to sleep like that, though, drenched from head to toe and dirty, his hair matted with blood and mud.  
“Do you happen to have a basin?” He asks to the boy, still shyly perched on the ladder, and the kid nods and literally slides down the steps with a last look at Geralt. Jaskier smirks. That kid is either in love with his witcher, or he’s in awe of him. Either way, it’s good to see that someone is able to recognise his value.  
“Come on” He smiles at Geralt, pushing matted hair out of his face “I’ll clean you up, than you can sleep”.  
Geralt nods and groans, letting Jaskier help him to sit up, keeping him steady against his chest, head resting on his shoulder. Jaskier takes his time with the warm water the boy just provided, washing away blood and grime from Geralt’s skin and rinsing his hair, scratching his scalp and massaging his shoulders until the witcher is pliant and relaxed. He makes quick work of his own clothes, cleans himself and fishes out a clean pair of trousers.  
“Geralt” He shushes when Geralt opens his eyes, looking for him around the bard “I’m here. I’m coming. You should sleep, love”.  
The witcher won’t ever admit it but he’s tired, and cold, and everything hurts and he just wants Jaskier close. So he whines, and Jaskier laughs.  
“Oh, you adorable man, you” He giggles, landing next to him to keep him warm.  
“You could have stayed at the inn, you know” Geralt murmurs, sleepy, and all he gets for his effort of speaking is a wack on his good shoulder.  
“What, and let you sleep in the cold, in this state?” Jaskier sounds affronted “No way, my dear witcher. Besides, I would never renounce to this” he gestures at their joined bodies, sharing the warmth and the space of just one of the two cots. Geralt hums contentedly, and would be ready to go to sleep if he didn’t hear Jaskier sighing.  
“What is it?” He grumbles, face hidden in the crook of the bard’s neck. Jaskier is drawing abstract figures on his naked back with nimble fingers, and he has to make an effort to stop himself from purring.  
“Nothing” The bard exhales “Is just that...you shouldn’t let people treat you like that” Jaskier states, and Geralt feels his stomach close. He’s so not ready for this conversation.  
“It’s not an issue. I’m used to this”.   
“Well, I’m not” Jaskier grumbles making it sound final “And I won’t let it happen anymore. Fuck them. I will write a song about that man. Oh, be sure I will”.  
Geralt hides a smile in Jaskier’s skin.  
He cares. His bard really cares.  
And it feels so good.


	5. All I need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t find the man that hired him, so he doesn’t know what Geralt has been paid for, nor where he’s going. He’s working himself into a panic right in front of the inn’s door when he hears his voice.  
> “Jaskier?” Geralt calls, and his confused expression would be fun if Jaskier weren’t so pissed. He’s holding Roach’s reins in one hand, the other on the hilt of his iron sword, eyes casting glances around “What’s wrong, are you alright?”

I'm dying to catch my breath  
Oh why don't I ever learn?  
Within Temptation - All I need

Geralt hasn’t been sleeping for fucking ages and, even with his Witcher stamina, is starting to weight down on him. Jaskier spies him from behind his fringe, right in the middle of an exhibition in the only inn in town, and sees him slouching in the most hidden booth of the common room. He needs to sleep, but refused to go to their room without hi, opting to stay downstairs until the end of the evening. Such an overprotective, lovely idiot.  
Jaskier only hopes that no one will approach him and ask for his help: they’re just back from a long, tiresome hunt, and the witcher needs the rest like oxygen. Looks like everyone is leaving him alone, and that’s perfect for the bard.  
He smiles, taking note of how Geralt fights to keep his eyes open: if he’s falling asleep in a room full of noise and unknown people he really must be exhausted. That’s it: just one more song and he’ll call it a night, and drag Geralt to bed.  
To sleep.  
And, obviously, that’s when a man sits in front of the witcher, twisting his fingers and starting to talk. He can’t hear what he says, but he knows he’s offering him a job. Geralt looks a bit more alert, attentive, and Jaskier knows he will take it. That fucking, reckless, irresponsible…  
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen! The show is over!” He says, silencing the voices that ask for more music “I’ll be here tomorrow evening, and I expect you all to be here too! Now, if you’ll excuse me...”  
He jumps down from the table and runs to follow Geralt, but the witcher has already left the inn with Roach . That man is too fast for his own good.  
He can’t find the man that hired him, so he doesn’t know what Geralt has been paid for, nor where he’s going. He’s working himself into a panic right in front of the inn’s door when he hears his voice.  
“Jaskier?” Geralt calls, and his confused expression would be fun if Jaskier weren’t so pissed. He’s holding Roach’s reins in one hand, the other on the hilt of his iron sword, eyes casting glances around “What’s wrong, are you alright?”  
Jaskier is on him in a second, face red and angry: “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He screeches, and wow, he didn’t know his voice could get so high.  
“There’s a small group of drowners in the lake, I’ve been asked to take care of...” Geralt starts, still looking at Jaskier, perplexed and a bit set off by the bard’s fury.  
“And you have to do it now?” Jaskier punctuates every single word jabbing his finger on Geralt’s chest “Can’t it wait ‘till morning? Hm?”  
“People could die if I don’t...”  
“You could die, you idiot! You!” Jaskier roars in the witcher’s face “You’re exhausted, you were falling asleep in a room full of people, you can barely stand!”  
Geralt is still looking at him, eyes huge and one his right hand still on the hilt of the sword, and doesn’t seem to understand what his bard is talking about. So Jaskier sighs and tires to calm down.  
“Geralt” He starts, cupping the witcher’s face in his hands and letting his thumbs caress his cheekbones “You have to rest. You can’t fight like this. It’ll slow you down. You’re too tired”.  
“I’m not...” Geralt wavers, letting the sword go, but Jaskier stands on his toes, shaking his head ans silencing him.  
“You are. You are, Geralt. You need to stop. Look at me” He says when Geralt’s eyes slide to the inn’s door, someone walking out “Look at me, Geralt. Ok. No more contracts for you, at least for today. Geralt, please”.  
Geralt looks at him, eyes huge and lips parted, and can’t seem to follow. Why is Jaskier so worried about him, why is he so keen on keeping him safe? Risking his life is part of the job’s description of a witcher, there’s nothing strange with that. And Jaskier must be some kind of mind reader, because he tilts his head and his thumb finds his temple, resting there. He looks so sad.  
“You don’t have to do everything on your own” He states, and something breaks inside the witcher “You don’t have to carry the responsibility of the safety of the whole world. And, if you really want to, you can do it after a bit of sleep. Because I will carry the responsibility of your safety since you’re doing a shitty job with it. Just sleep a bit. Don’t go and risk your life like that. Please”.  
Fuck. He looks close to tears. Geralt feels something in his throat too, closing his airways in a painful grip. He’s so not used to this. He doesn’t know what to do.  
So he stays frozen in Jaskier’s grip Roach’s heavy breathing behind him blowing clouds in the cold night air.  
“Geralt?”  
Jaskier tries again, and Geralt is sure that it must be the fatigue, the weariness he feels deep in his bones, but he crumbles against his bard and, for a second, he’s scared he’ll bring him down with him in more senses than one. But Jaskier is stronger than he looks and is able to control his fall, accompanying him to kneel on the wet ground with one hand on his neck and the other on the small of his back. Jaskier is silent as he tucks the witcher’s head under his chin, and Geralt just stays there: eyes wide, lips parted and something that feels like a rock lodged in his throat. Jaskier’s thumb is back on his face, moving in smooth circles from his cheekbone to his temple and back, and he gets lost in the sensation. It’s both soothing and unsettling, this feeling of having someone like Jaskier, someone who actually cares if he lives or die, and that tries to stop the latter from happening.  
“Come on” He hears Jaskier whisper against his hair “Let’s get you to bed, hm? You can go to kill that stuff tomorrow. Ok?”  
Geralt can’t answer, he’s too stunned to even hum, so he simply nods and stands up, slowly, with Jaskier’s fingers till playing with his hair. His mouth feels dry, parched.  
He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he lets Jaskier take the lead, letting him bring Roach back to the stables and guide him up the stairs to their room. He’s already half asleep when Jaskier pushes him on the bed and slides off his boots.  
-  
Jaskier looks at him and breathes again. Geralt is beautiful, has always been. Always will be. He looks nearly peaceful in slumber, one hand on the pillow next to his head, hair still a bit damp from the rain crowning him with a silver halo. And when he turns towards Jaskier, still asleep, the bards starts praying for the first time in ages. No nightmares for him tonight. Let him sleep. Please, just let him sleep.

\---

So as you all well know, Italy is on lockdown. This means that I'll have a fuckload of problems with my jobs (yes, plural), but I'll have much more time to write.


	6. Machines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt letting him wash his hair made him feel special.   
> But those touches were mostly utilitarian, far from an actual show of affection. Far from what he thought Geralt deserved. But didn’t know how to accept. He didn’t even know if he’d like to receive those attentions.

Crazy as it sounds, you won't feel as low as you feel right now  
At least that's what I've been told by everyone  
I whisper empty sounds in your ear and hope that you won't let go  
Take the pieces and build them skywards  
Machines - Biffy Clyro

Life is hard when you’re used to express your emotions with as much enthusiasm as a golden retriever pup, but you choose to spend your time with your exact opposite. Jaskier knows that Geralt has every right to act like he does, he’s not one of those people that feels entitled to force someone to change and adapt to what they think the right way of living should be. It’s stupid. It’s hurtful. You can’t force someone to change for your own enjoyment. You can’t force someone like Geralt to be more sociable, just like you can’t force someone like Jaskier to stop being his bubbly self.  
It’s hard, anyway.  
In the beginning, their friendship was a trainwreck. Geralt kept on pushing him away, hurting him with harsh words, growled answers and silent treatments. Jaskier kept on pushing, maybe even too much, and kept on getting hurt and going back and forth between Geralt and anything else. They fought, they went without seeing each other for months, they found each other again, they kept together anyway. And Jaskier learnt how to approach Geralt without making him feel cornered.  
It was like taming a skittish horse. Melitele, Geralt would never forgive him should he hear that. But, alas, it was true.  
Geralt didn’t seem to shy from his touch just as much as he did with everyone else, and it was something Jaskier was grateful for. It made him feel honoured. Wanted. Accepted. Geralt’s thigh pressing against his own, sitting in front of the fire, made him feel special. Geralt letting him fuss when he got hurt made him feel special. Geralt saving him again and again made him feel special. Geralt putting his life on the line for him made him feel special. And guilty. But special anyway. Geralt letting him wash his hair made him feel special.   
But those touches were mostly utilitarian, far from an actual show of affection. Far from what he thought Geralt deserved. But didn’t know how to accept. He didn’t even know if he’d like to receive those attentions.  
Well, he’d have to ask him, then. So he did. And gods, it was awkward. So, back to the present.  
Geralt sits in front of the fire, taking care of his swords. And it’s bloody cold, like, a lot. The ground is iced and covered in snow, hard as stone, the sun is long gone and the nights are so damn long in this time of the year. So he just plops down on the fallen tree Geralt is sitting on and looks at him, smiling and looking at his hands, hiding his own under his armpits to keep them warm.  
“May I touch you?” He asks, and Geralt stops sharpening his sword and looks at him, head tilted and one eyebrow raised. Then he just shrugs, starting on his sword again.  
“Is it a yes or...”  
“Do what you want, Jaskier”  
That’s not an answer, that’s not Geralt saying he accepts his touch because he wants it. That’s Geralt letting him do what he wants. Jaskier smiles again.  
“No, my friend” He smiles, looking up at the night sky “I need to know if me touching you makes you uncomfortable”.   
There’s silence, then. A stunned silence as Jaskier keeps on counting the stars in the cold, clear, winter sky. When he dares to turn in the witcher’s direction Geralt is looking at him, sword forgotten against his knee: the fire draws moving shadows on his face and his eyes are...fascinating. Geralt stays there, unmoving for a second more, and then blinks. Jaskier just looks at him, hunched against the cold.   
“You don’t make me uncomfortable” He manages in the end, biting his bottom lip. He looks vulnerable. Jaskier doesn’t know why, but it twists his stomach in painful knots.  
This man, this witcher...Geralt is speechless when confronted with simple human empathy. He wants to know what made him so, but knows already he will never ask. There are things you just don’t talk about, and Geralt is made of silence and unanswered questions that no one should ask.  
“Alright, then”  
Jaskier slides on the wood until his side is pressed against Geralt’s. And the witcher is even colder than him, so cold it makes him shiver. Must have something to do with his slow heartbeat.  
“Fuck, Geralt!” He reprimands, shoving him “You’re freezing!”  
“Hm. You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Geralt smiles “Come here. I don’t want you to freeze to death”.  
“This isn’t uncomfortable for you?” Jaskier asks, slotting under the witcher’s arm.  
“Hm. No.”  
“You sure?”  
Geralt sighs.  
“Sure”.  
Jaskier makes sure to ask every time he wants to touch Geralt. And Geralt keeps him close more or less every time.

\--

Sorry, I'm drunk.


	7. Under the graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sing?”  
> He managed with a croak, and Jaskier couldn’t help himself.  
> “Are you dying?”

Don't take care of me  
Be scared of me

Ozzy Osbourne - Under the graveyard

You learn many things, on the Path with a witcher. Geralt is a generous teacher if you know how to ask and how to put him at ease, and Jaskier is growing to be a master of both those arts. He’s learning everything he can about the creatures that roam the Continent, much less about Geralt’s hunts: those Geralt is still very closed off about, so Jaskier has to tag along to gather enough material for his songs. He’s learning something about Geralt’s potions too: which one is good for the pain, the right colour of Cat (that’s easy: as black as Geralt’s eyes turn when he takes it) how the golden one helps with healing and the white one with disinfection. He even learnt how to brew some of those, especially those that can help with the witcher’s healing when them man is incapacitated to prepare them himself. He has learnt that his witcher is much more similar to a pissed off cat than to a brainless beast, and that witchers have their own schools. He’s learnt something about the grievous tests and mutations they’re put through as children and young men to become what they are, but it’s a subject that Geralt still won’t discuss. And he's learnt that even witchers, when a wound is poorly treated, can get sick and risk their lives just like everyone else. He’s learnt this particular piece of information in the hard way. He should have inquired about it when he had the time, thinking about it.  
“Geralt, do witchers get sick?”  
But, alas, he didn’t.  
And now he had a feverish witcher on his hands, in the middle of winter in a wooden hovel that no one but the owner would dare to call an inn, in a room full of cold drafts that kept on raising goosebumps on Geralt’s too warm, sweaty skin.  
And Geralt wasn’t alright, of course not. The basilisk he killed had managed to wound him: just a nick on the arm, and they had cleaned it but had been too late. That small nick was going to take his witcher’s life at that rate, and it was scaring him shitless. And, judging by Geralt’s reaction, it hurt like a bitch. The innkeeper had been kind and provided them with clean water and linens, a basin and a wooden bath tube, and told them to call him should they need anything: everything for the men that had freed the village from the threat posed by the huge reptile that lived in the close woods. What they really needed was a healer, but there were none in that shit town. Too small, they said. Too far away from everything. And the roads had turned into rivers of mud with the neverending snow of winter. So: no healer. No way. And no way to get Geralt to a nearby town, because there were no nearby towns. There was fucking nothing around that damned place, and Geralt’s eyes were looking at him without really seeing anything, huge and unfocused and, gods, so scared.  
Jaskier was kneeling in front of the bed, keeping a cold rag on Geralt’s forehead, looking at the small drops of cold water that ran down the witcher’s face mixing with sweat and what looked like some stray tears. His breathing was irregular, difficult, and his chest kept on rising, getting still and start again, rise and still, in an agonizing dance of pain and struggle.  
“Geralt” He called for what felt the umpteenth time “Geralt?”  
Nothing.  
Geralt kept silent, looking through him, lips in a thin, white line. Jaskier had tried to give him the potions he usually took in those situations, but they were either the wrong ones or they still had to make effect because, if nothing, he was getting worse.  
And then Geralt bared his teeth, back arching from the bed, and squeezed his eyes hard. So hard.  
His breath hitched, his head turned and he sobbed.  
And it was such a heartbreaking thing to witness, because Geralt was suffering without making a sound. And it was shattering Jaskier’s heart.  
“Shhh” He soothed petting Geralt’s hair “Geralt, I’m here. There’s no one else. It’s just us”.  
But Geralt couldn’t hear him, biting his bottom lip bloody to keep quiet, and Jaskier understood. He understood that a sick witcher was a dead witcher should someone notice.  
“Geralt” He tried again, keeping the cloth on Geralt’s forehead “Geralt, please. I’m scared. I’m so scared, and I don’t know what to do”.  
And it was so cold, in that room: even with the fire roaring in the earth Geralt was shaking so hard.  
Fuck it, then.  
Jaskier climbed on the bed, toed off his boots and gathered Geralt in his arms. And it was hard. Not just because Geralt was a mountain of a man, and for Jaskier was difficult to keep him warm with his own body heat since his own body was so much smaller, but because Geralt bucked as soon as Jaskier’s arms went around him. His eyes opened and he bared his teeth, in every way the white wolf Jaskier loved to sing about.  
“Geralt, no. Come on” He pleaded, trying to pin him down. Wrong move. Geralt growled and snapped his teeth at him, missing Jaskier’s neck by centimetres. The bard scrambled backwards and Gerald did the same, falling from the bed and pressing his bare back against the wooden wall, goosebumps rising again across his chest and arms.  
Shit, how could a man so big manage to look so small?  
Then Jaskier remembered something Geralt had told him, something about making yourself small to be a smaller target, harder to hit, and his stomach plummeted to his feet. What was Geralt’s mind making him see to make him scared of Jaskier, of all people? What had happened to him, what was hidden under all that...Geraltness?  
Ok, then.  
Jaskier crouched in front of the witcher moving slowly, making himself as small as he could. He didn’t want Geralt to be scared of him, the mere idea gave him the creeps, and he couldn’t even let him shiver in the cold with his fever.  
“Geralt, it’s me” He tired to reassure the shivering man in front of him “Calm down, please. It’s just me”.  
Some god must have been listening, because Geralt blinked and parted his lips, throat working.  
“Jas...kier?”  
And shit, Jaskier had never heard anything more beautiful than Geralt’s broken voice calling his name.  
“Yes, I’m here” He smiled, overjoyed, guiding the witcher back in bed. Geralt made no sound as he gritted his teeth and curled around his stomach, letting Jaskier cover him with blankets and furs. Geralt was letting the bard take care of him, and shit if it wasn’t a bad sign.  
“Geralt, are you still with me?” He started, letting one hand rest on the witcher’s shoulder. Geralt’s muscles were twitching under his fingers, so he started massaging his neck and arm, feeling him shiver under his ministrations. It took him some time, but the witcher answered, nodding.  
“Good. Good. I gave you the golden potion, it it alright?”  
Geralt nodded again.  
“Shouldn’t it be working already?”  
“It will” The witcher groaned “Give it time”  
Jaskier nodded.  
“May I touch you?”  
Geralt shuddered and did something Jaskier didn’t expect: he opened one tired, yellow eye and dragged himself upwards, until his head was in Jaskier’s lap.  
“Please” He exhaled.  
Oh, gods.  
“I’m so sorry, Geralt” Jaskier whispered, combing Geralt’s hair with his fingers. Geralt shook his head, eyes still closed, and Jaskier had no difficulties to understand what he meant.  
“You’ve been made a witcher to protect humans, Geralt. People like me. You get hurt every damn time. And I hate it. I fucking hate it”.  
Geralt said nothing, just opened the same eye again and wet his lips.  
“Sing?”  
He managed with a croak, and Jaskier couldn’t help himself.  
“Are you dying?”  
Geralt huffed out a laugh that turned into a long, painful coughing. He found himself propped up against the bard’s chest, and had to admit that breathing came much easier like that.  
“Don’t...make me laugh” He wheezed “Asshole”  
Jaskier’s hands went on his shoulders.  
“Does it hurt?”  
Geralt let his head fall backwards against the bard’s sternum and wet his lips again.  
“What does it looks like?”  
Jaskier studied him, his tense muscles and trembling form, his fevered brow and half lidded eyes, and let him rest completely against him, one leg at each side of the witcher, head tucked under his chin. He crossed his arms on Geralt’s chest and covered him again. Then started to sing until he felt him relax. And kept on singing even after.


	8. Voices of doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt had already downed his witchery potion, the one that made his eyes go all creepy and sexy and whatever (Cat, a gruff voice suggested to his brain), but they just kept on coming, surging from the dead waters in endless waves and shit, it was bad. It was so bad.

Look at me I am the living proof that end can mean relief  
I'm gracious but there's something you should know  
You have large shoes to fill  
So welcome to my freakshow  
Here in my netherworld I rule  
Let all your manners disappear  
Finally your duty's come clear  
Sing to me  
All you voices of doom  
Come on sing to me  
Let me hear the sound I like  
Cry for me  
All you voices of doom  
Come on sing to me

Mono Inc. - Voices of doom

Jaskier worries every time Geralt gets ready for a new hunt: it’s not just the rational, normal fear of having to see him risk his life, he’s terrified by the idea of losing him to the battle. He changes, when he fights: it’s not just the potions, it’s a witcher thing he supposes. He loses himself in some kind of blood red trance and feels no pain, not even that of the worst injury he suffers. Jaskier tags along, watching him from somewhere safe, and is always shaken and mesmerized by what he sees.  
Geralt dances.   
It’s a dance made of blood, pain and guts, but how would you call something like that, otherwise? He moves with fluid grace, avoiding the worst blows and delivering almost every time he counter-attacks. He’s lethal, and he does it all silently: the monster of the day can screech as much as it likes, but Geralt will strike him down with a deadly quietness and his bottomless, pitch black eyes. If ghosts were real that’s how they would look like.  
It comes for a price, anyway, just like everything involving magic does.  
He might get lost in that fury, and never come back. Sure, he might also get so badly wounded that...but what scares Jaskier the most is the possibility of Geralt letting lost in his own head like that. It’s a fate he wouldn’t wish on anyone.  
Any. One. For real.  
That’s why he always follows in those dangerous hunts: it’s not just the songs he will compose, he wants to make sure that Geralt will come back. It happened, once: he nearly lost him, and won’t let it happen anymore. Geralt is strong, the strongest person he’s ever met, but he neds an anchor too, needs to know that someone is still there, waiting for him to come back. Everyone needs a home, Geralt’s just happens to be Jaskier. Who says a home needs to have walls?  
That absurd, damned day Jaskier was waiting for the battle to end half hidden behind a dead tree, grey swamp water reaching his knees, watching, and Geralt was doing his deadly dance with a bunch of ghouls. And there were so many, too many. Geralt had already downed his witchery potion, the one that made his eyes go all creepy and sexy and whatever (Cat, a gruff voice suggested to his brain), but they just kept on coming, surging from the dead waters in endless waves and shit, it was bad. It was so bad. The witcher’s body was covered in red blood and black muck, but he just wouldn’t slow down.   
And then the monsters finished, and Gerald couldn’t stop: Jaskier felt his stomach close when Geralt turned his head in his direction and saw him. And positively snarled, eyes black, dark veins all around their sockets. It was the most frightening thing he had ever seen, a living ghost stalking in his direction, dead waters sloshing around his legs and silver sword pointed right at him.  
Running would have been stupid at that point: he didn’t have a chance against a normal Geralt, a Geralt on potions was impossible to run away from. So he just stood there, as unmoving as one could with a witcher in full hunting mode coming to get you, because he trusted him, trusted Geralt with his life. And he could always climb that dead tree should the need arise.   
Wow, great plan Jaskier. Really.  
Geralt was in front of him, teeth bared and silver sword ready to strike, and Jaskier did something really, really, really stupid. Idiotic. Reckless. He took a step forward, entering the witcher’s guards and clinging to the chest piece of his black armour with shaking fingers. Geralt growled low in his throat, but then did something so wolfish it made Jaskier giggle.  
A nervous giggle, but a giggle nonetheless.  
Geralt sniffed him. Took a big whiff of his hair and neck and decided that he posed no threat, because the next thing Jaskier knew was that he was being dragged down, sitting in the water, by an exhausted witcher that was still half lost in his own head.  
And it was a big no-no, because that filthy water surely wasn’t good for Geralt’s wounds. They needed to be cleaned and disinfected, not dosed in mud.  
“No, Geralt. Come on” He muttered, clasping the witcher’s arms “Stand up and get on Roach, we need to go back. Alright?”  
Geralt obeyed but kept on clinging to the bard, whining like a sad pup every time that Jaskier tried to recede from his grasp and help him reach the saddle. From a terrifying wolf to a desperate puppy in ten seconds, ladies and gentlemen. What had Jaskier’s life even became at that point?  
He managed to get Geralt on Roach keeping one hand on his calf and making sure he wouldn’t fall, and brought him back.  
Literally. 

It was as he was tending to Geralt’s wounds that he gathered the courage to ask.  
“Geralt, do you remember anything from after the hunt?”  
Geralt thought about it, brows crossed, and shook his head, wet hair whipping the air around him. Jaskier smiled, cleaning up his hands.  
“You were utterly affectionate”  
“What does it even mean?”  
Geralt was looking at the bard with the head tilt he usually did when something wasn’t perfectly clear. It reminded Jaskier so much of his wolfy side he couldn’t help laughing.  
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing”.  
“Wait, wait” Geralt tried to stop him from leaving the room with an extended arm “What do you mean, Jaskier? Jaskier!”  
The only answer he got was the bard laughing from the next room.


	9. Gimme danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can understand Geralt’s reticence in sharing with him the suffering of his training or how and why he became a witcher, his mother abandoning him like she did, but why should he keep everything else a secret?

There's nothing in my dreams  
Just some ugly memories  
Kiss me like the ocean breeze  
Iggy and the Stooges - Gimme danger

Jaskier is, by nature, a very, very, very curious human being: he just can’t help it. If something intrigues him he needs to know everything about it, it’s just in his scholar nature. There is no crevice or hidden secret he won’t be able to eviscerate, study and comprehend. He has studied everything he could about music and no, he doesn’t only play the lute: he can play every fucking instrument in the whole Continent, thank you very much, the lute just happens to be the most comfortable to carry around. Have you ever tried to drag a harpsichord around? Of course you haven’t. Would be stupid, right?  
He reads, a lot: every time Geralt and him reach some city he disappears in the library for hours. And he reads everything: novels, poems, essays. Every damn thing. He often spends his free evenings, when he’s not playing, illustrating what he’s learnt to Geralt and, much to his surprise, the witcher always keeps on with him.  
Fuck, sometimes he even knows what he’s been talking about before he opens his mouth, but follows him with fascinated and attentive eyes nonetheless. That’s what love must be, thinks Jaskier.   
Geralt himself is an interesting subject, for him: the witcher keeps his past as secluded as his secrets, and won’t allow him even the smallest glimpse. It’s a bit frustrating, he has to admit, but he won’t press for information. He won’t hurt Geralt just to appease his curiosity, it would be stupid, and cruel, and totally unnecessary.  
Sometimes is Geralt himself that shares something about his childhood or training, other times he will get that faraway look in his eyes that makes Jaskier understand that he’s reminiscing. He only asks if Geralt smiles, and it’s rare: the witcher’s expression is usually open and forlorn after one of those episodes, and he doesn’t want him to suffer more than he’s already doing.  
There is something he doesn’t get, anyway. He can understand Geralt’s reticence in sharing with him the suffering of his training or how and why he became a witcher, his mother abandoning him like she did, but why should he keep everything else a secret? Why won’t he tell him where he was really born since, from his accent, he’s clearly not from Rivia? Why not confide in him when he asks him about his hunts, or how he got some peculiar scars? Why won’t he let him know something about his life before meeting the bard. He asks, and asks, and asks and the answer is always the same.  
No answer at all.  
Which, ok. He won’t press.   
Until one evening, when summer is knocking on spring doors and the night air is pleasantly cool and full of flowery perfumes. Jaskier is sitting between Geralt’s tights, elbow propped up on the witcher’s knees, and maybe that’s why Geralt gathered the courage to speak. Because, sitting like that, Jaskier can’t see him, and he can’t look in his eyes and see what he thinks.  
Jaskier is everything but dangerous, from a warrior perspective. Sure, he can defend himself when needed, and even be a vicious attacker, but is no match for Geralt. So, how can someone so delicate be so terrifying? He tries to speak, opens his mouth and closes it again, throat closing and chest aching.  
“I will disappoint you” The witcher finally whispers, fingers playing with Jaskier’s hair “That’s why I never answer your questions”.  
And he can’t see his face but he knows, he just knows, that Jaskier has gone rigid, tense, under his hands. When the bard turns around to face him his eyes are round and wide, disbelieving.  
“Are you kidding me?” He asks, accusing, and Geralt can only shake his head because his fucking throat is closing again, and it hurts, and he’s already regretting that small bout of sincerity. Jaskier deflates, going lax on Geralt’s knees, an expression of utter sadness and confusion painted on his face.  
“Why?” He whispers “Did I do something that made you think I’m disappointed in you, somehow?”  
Geralt blinks, brushing his fingers along Jaskier’s cheekbone, still surprised to be allowed to do so, then shakes his head again.  
“Why would you think something like that?” He enquires, confused, as Jaskier turns his head and kisses his palm, made rough from scars and sword hilts, looking at him expectantly. He knows what he wants. The bard wants him to elaborate.  
Fuck.   
He takes a big breath and tries again.  
“You did nothing wrong” He explains “Me, on the contrary...let’s just say that my record sucks”  
Jaskier almost smiles, then bites one of his fingers. Geralt’s brain stops working.  
“You know, I’m honoured you let me do this” He murmurs, kissing the offended digit “I’m honoured you let me get so close to you, when I know how difficult it can be for you. You are who you are because of your past, or despite it. I don’t care. Everything you did brought you here, with me. You could never disappoint me. Ever”.  
He smiles for real, then, and drags Geralt’s face down pulling him by his hair. It hurts, but it’s a little bit exciting, too. Well, more than a little bit, maybe. Geralt hums as their lips meet.   
“Even if sometimes you do a lot of dumb shit, witcher” Jaskier adds, and Geralt smirks and looks at him, mesmerized. It must be a superpower the bard has: how to make him feel better in no time, using just his words. He pulls him up, letting him rest his smaller frame against his chest, and kisses him again.  
It gets easier, then.  
Sure, Geralt is still closed off on most subjects, but there are some amazing moments where he will start recounting something, usually something funny, especially if he’s had a bit too much to drink and is in the right disposition.  
“You know, once I found a dragon egg and stood there like an idiot for hours, waiting for the mother to be back”  
“Oh, how affectionate. And suicidal, Geralt”.  
Or, even:  
“Once Vesemir filled my canteen with aquavit, I didn’t check and ended up drunk as fuck in drowners territory”  
“Wait, what?”  
“It was a prank!”  
“What the fuck, Geralt?!”


	10. Stay with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. Shit. Oh, shit.  
> Did he just punch Jaskier?

Open your eyes  
Breath in life  
Open your eyes  
Breathe in, breathe out  
Oh I, I can see the light  
Stay with me  
Away from the darkest of nights  
Stay with me

In Flames - Stay with me

Geralt usually meditates or passes out from sheer exhaustion: Jaskier has rarely seen him prepare himself for a good night sleep, and even more rarely seen him wake up well rested and refreshed. It’s hard to understand why for someone that loves to sleep like Jaskier does, and has never has a problem in resting. It just comes natural to him, just like to a lot of his fellow humans.   
Geralt is not human, and Jaskier can see how hard it is for him to let his guard down enough to fall asleep. He’s tried to be subtle about it, tried to help Geralt fall asleep with every means he knows. He’s braided his hair, sang to him, stayed quiet for a whole evening.  
So he has started to study the witcher, and now he might have the right idea: Geralt won’t relax because he needs to keep an eye on everything? He’ll do that for him, at least for that night.  
Because Geralt is tired, awfully so, and let’s face it: awfully grumpy. Jaskier is just not ready to face a new level of grumpiness from the witcher, and those dark smudges under his eyes...no. He doesn’t like them. Like, at all. So...well.  
“I’ll take the first watch” He says, helping the witcher to set up camp, and Geralt freezes.   
“The fuck are you talking about?”  
Oh, that went well. Jaskier sighs.  
“I’m talking about guarding the camp, Geralt. You sleep, I’ll wake you up should something happen”.  
Geralt eyes him, one eyebrow raised and his arms still full of stick to throw in the fire.  
“If something happens you’ll be dead long before waking me up. No way”.  
He sounds so certain, so sure. And it pisses Jaskier off.   
“I know what to look for” He states, serious as he’s never been “I know what to listen for. I’ve had a good teacher, Geralt. Just...please. You have to sleep. Just for tonight. Alright?”  
Leave it to him to start pissed and end up pleading. Geralt cleans up his hands against his trousers and looks at him again.  
“I’m not tired”  
“Really, again? You’re dead on your feet”  
“I don’t need to sleep”  
“Yes, you fucking do”  
“Jaskier, don’t...”  
“No Geralt, fuck it!” Jaskier explodes, standing up from tending to the fire and walking up to Geralt “You’re tired. Fuck, you’re exhausted! How do you think you could kill monsters like this, hm? Yawning in their face ‘till they’ll fall asleep, and then beheading them?” He shakes his head eyes on the flames and hands on his hips “Please, just rest. For tonight. I will wake you up, I swear”.  
Geralt looks at him, uncomprehending, but Jaskier just won’t relent: he drags him to his bedroll and forces him to lie down.  
“Don’t tuck me in” the witcher growls but there’s no bite. He looks...nervous. Must be because the idea of Jaskier, left alone in the dark to guard them both, keeps him on edge.   
“Stop being a stubborn ass and sleep” The bard smiles and goes to sit by the fire. Geralt keeps on looking at him for a while, surprised and just a bit impressed: Jaskier notices so many things about him. He notices when he’s hungry, tired or hurt even if Geralt won’t say a thing about it. It’s a new experience for him, because Jaskier doesn’t only notice: he acts on those things, trying to make it all better. He still has to get his head around it.  
But fuck, his eyes feel so heavy.   
He’s so tired.  
He sleeps.

He wakes up with a scream dying in his throat and two hands on his shoulders shaking him awake, and doesn’t know who those hands belong to so he lashes out and hears a thud followed by a muffled “Ow!” that makes him aware of his surroundings.  
Fuck. Shit. Oh, shit.  
Did he just punch Jaskier?  
“Jask...” He tries to call but his voice dies in his throat, ending in a high pitched wail that he’ll be forever embarrassed of, but the bard’s hands are back, now, and are grounding him as he heaves in the frozen grass.  
“Geralt, you with me?” He hears, and can only nod as he pukes what feels like everything he ate in a lifetime.   
“Are you alright?” He manages when he’s done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand “Did I hurt you?”  
And the bard’s intake of breath is audible even with the blood rushing in his ears.  
“Am I...I’m fine, Geralt. Gods. It’s you I’m worried about. And if you just try to say you’re fine I’m going to fucking hit you, so don’t even try”.  
Geralt opens his mouth, lets his throat work then closes his lips and looks at the bard with a half lost, half pissed gaze, ten turns his head and lets the flames relax him, their noise slowly taking over the mess that’s still wreaking havoc in his brain.  
“You wanna talk about it?”  
Jaskier’s voice is soft and a bit scared when he poses his question, and Geralt has to ponder it. He looks at the bard, at the dancing shadows that the fire draws on his face, and doesn’t know what to say. It’s the first time that someone witnesses one of his nightmares and stays, and this has been one of the worst up to date.  
Just his rotten luck.   
Anyway, he has a question to answer to, and his addled brain makes him more honest than he’d like to be.  
“Hm. I don’t...know?”  
Jaskier looks at him, really looks at him, and nods.  
“You don’t have to if you don’t...”  
“No, Jaskier” Geralt interrupts him “I just...I don’t know. What I dreamt, I mean. I can’t really recall”  
“You mean you don’t remember?” Jaskier asks, confused, and Geralt is ready to admit that he feels the same. Confused as fuck, that is. He looks to the side and then back to the bard and shakes his head, conflicted. He doesn’t really know how to explain: the one that’s good with words is Jaskier, not him.  
“Geralt, really...”  
“It’s...confused” Geralt manages to pit out just as Jaskier tries to calm him down “My dreams aren’t what you’d define normal”  
Jaskier is sitting down in front of him, now: legs crossed and elbows on his knees, listening to everything Geralt feels like sharing. It feels...oddly intimate.  
“What do you mean?” He asks, and now Geralt has to explain, right? He sighs.  
“There are no images, in my dreams. Nothing clear. Just...fear, I guess? And...and this feeling of...”  
He doesn’t know how to go on, doesn’t have the words, so he just puts a hand on his own chest and pushes down on his sternum, his whole ribcage.  
“Anxiety?” Jaskier suggests. And leave it to him to get it at the first try. He nods, hands still on his chest, and sees Jaskier follow his movement.   
“Come here” The bard exhales sitting behind him, one leg at each side of the witcher and his back against a tree for support. He pulls Geralt backwards until his back is flush against his chest and frees his hair from the leather strap he keeps them tied with, moves them on one of his shoulders and lets him rest his head against his clavicle, humming.  
“You think you can sleep again?”  
Geralt shakes his head, letting it roll on the bard’s shirt, and feels Jaskier’s hands in his hair.  
“Is this why you don’t sleep?” He mutters, and Geralt nods “Alright”.  
Jaskier’s hands are on his temples now, drawing small circles, forcing his racing thoughts and aching head to relax.  
“Why don’t you try to sleep anyway? Meditate, just close your eyes, do whatever you witchers do?”  
Geralt huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, but doesn’t dislodge Jaskier’s fingers.  
“You don’t want to sleep?” He asks.  
“Nah. I have something to do”  
“Like what?”  
“Watching over you”  
Geralt freezes, , then tilts his head backwards to meet Jaskier’s eyes. The bard is as serious as one can be, and is waiting for Geralt to decide what to do.  
“Are you...really?” He asks, and Jaskier raises one eyebrow.  
“Deadly”  
“I...you” He swallows “Thank you”  
Jaskier smiles.  
“Just rest, alright?”


	11. Silver lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guy in the front row looks up from his tankard and smacks his lips, then shouts: “Witchers are beasts, bard! Sing something else!”  
> And Jaskier stops, looks at Geralt’s retreating back and grins down at the man.  
> “Of course!”

A song's never just sad  
There's hope, there's a silver lining  
Show me my silver lining  
First aid kit - Silver lining

He will never admit it out loud, but Geralt is quite fond of Jaskier’s music. It’s just that...being sung about is a lot embarrassing. And Geralt hates being the focus of everyone’s attention so, when Jaskier starts on Toss a coin, he usually leaves the tavern and comes back after a few minutes, just the time for the song to end. He truthfully owes a lot to that song, his whole guild does: they’re more accepted now, less shunned and feared, and it’s something he’ll always be grateful for: it’s just that...well, being painted as a hero when he feels like nothing but a killer for hire is always weird for him. And Jaskier has been trying to explain for ages that he’s so much better than he feels like: he never asks for much money when asked for help by poor people, speaks his mind even when it could be dangerous, protect the very same humanity that despises him, he saved some of the monsters he should have killed, for fuck sake! And has helped countless elves and dryads, his friendship with Milva and Filavandrel, the permission he has to cross Brokilon every time he needs to, are enough to testify it.  
But no, Geralt still thinks he’s nothing but some kind of mercenary and won’t listen to anyone who calls him differently, not even Jaskier. It’s just so engrained in his mind that he finds nearly impossible to stop believing it.  
Jaskier knows that’s why he rarely reacts when people treat him like shit, when they stop him from entering their homes or their taverns and shops even if he could kill them all bare handed. Geralt doesn’t think they’re right but, to an extent, he has internalized everything they throw a t him and oh, this pisses off Jaskier to no end. That bard has got a lot of work to do to undo all that damage, and isn’t even sure he’ll succeed: how do you convince someone of their own worth if they won’t even listen to you?  
It’s a mess, really.  
So Jaskier does what he’s really good at: he sings about him, praises him with music and paints a new portrait of the witcher, one he will look at without disbelief, one day. Hopefully.  
This doesn’t stop him from having to watch Geralt leave every time he starts playing that song. Only this time something happens, and it’s both funny and unnerving at the same time: a guy in the front row looks up from his tankard and smacks his lips, then shouts: “Witchers are beasts, bard! Sing something else!”  
And Jaskier stops, looks at Geralt’s retreating back and grins down at the man.  
“Of course!”  
He tunes his lute for a few seconds, stretches his back, cracks his fingers and starts strumming a joyful tune, with a pretty upbeat rhythm.  
“I met a guy in a small inn  
really a coward, that  
he waits for people to be gone  
to talk behind their backs”  
The guy looks at him and Jaskier gifts him his best smile, studies him and restarts.  
“He has dark eyes and yellow hair  
and this you gotta know  
should you want to recognize the guy  
the guy that I just saw”  
At this point the man looks murderous, the whole tavern is laughing like crazy and Jaskier is having too much fun to stop.  
“He asked for a different song  
and what a song he got!  
The one that paints him as he is  
an asshole and bigot”  
People are howling, the guy looks ready to have a stroke and Geralt is back, hand on the door’s handle and an incredulous look on his face. Jaskier winks at him and concludes his performance.  
“And just as I was singing  
the guy took off and left  
the door behind him swinging  
and we were fine at least!”  
The man Jaskier has been singing about jumps from his chair reaching for the table the bard is standing on, making it tumble and Jaskier fall as the audience roars with laughters and whistling, but he never manages to land the first punch on the bard’s face because a strong hand closes around his wrist and pulls, sending him careening against the wall, stunned. The whole tavern shuts up all together, then erupts in cheers and claps, tossing coins to the bard and clapping him on the shoulders as Geralt helps him to his feet.  
“You alright?” He asks as Jaskier grabs his lute: when the bard smiles Geralt knows that the lute is fine and starts checking his head for bumps or wounds and, when he finds none, he lets him go and mutters, affectionately: “Foolish bard”  
Jaskier just grins and starts laughing again when the innkeeper brings them bread and ale.  
“For the witcher and his bard!” He proclaims clapping his hands.  
“Am I your bard?”  
Jaskier asks sitting down and batting his lashes, and Geralt snorts.  
“If you wish so”  
“Oh, my darling” Jaskier smiles around a mouthful of fresh bread “You only had to ask!”

\---

looks like I wrote a song


	12. Never look back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “These are going to scar” He winces, checking some deep scratches on the witcher’s tight, right above his left knee “Well, what’s one more, right?”

Never look back  
Don't look behind you  
We're all done gettin' fooled  
Look up, the sky is blue  
Never look back  
It might blind you  
We all want the truth  
We all want something new  
Duff McKagan - Never look back

Geralt ears are buzzing as they enter the inn: the blow he took to the head wasn’t enough to give him a concussion, but he’s in a dire need of some sleep and a warm place to rest: le it to Jaskier to have arranged it all already, exchanging his singing abilities and services for a good room for two people.   
The inn is almost full, and the chatter of dozens of people make Geralt suddenly dizzy, hand grasping at the wooden wall to keep himself upright. He should really try to eat something, but with the way the world is tilting he’s certain he’d just throw it all up. He’s starting to list to the side when Jaskier plasters himself under his good shoulder and loops one arm around his middle.  
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute” He mutters good naturedly “Roach is being taken care of, I just paid the stable boy. Think you can take the stairs, witcher?”  
There is a smile hidden behind Jaskier’s words the question, per se, is pretty serious: Geralt eyes the steep wooden stairs and swallows, head still spinning, then looks down to the bard and says nothing. The smile is gone from Jaskier’s face, and the bard looks much more worried than ten seconds before.   
“Geralt” He murmurs, checking his eyes “Are you ok? Do you need me to fetch the healer?”  
Geralt snorts and shakes his head, white hair falling on his face from the destroyed tail he usually keeps them tied in: he’s had worse, and has never needed a healer. Jaskier huffs, balancing the witcher’s weight and starting the climb to their room.  
Why the fuck they keep on putting the rooms up the stairs is beyond him. Anyway.  
“I know you had it worse, Geralt” He grumbles, helping the witcher with the first steps “I know you had to take care of yourself in worse situations, with no help. And that’s exactly what I don’t want to happen anymore. Got it?”  
Geralt stares, dumbfounded. Did he say it out loud? Looks like he did. Shit. He didn’t mean to. He clears his throat and counts the steps that separate them from the bath the innkeeper promised for the men that rid the villagers from of the threat posed by the bruxas in the wood. Honestly there was just one of them, but she was a though one so Geralt choose not to correct the villagers that cheered to the death of the monsters. He also choose to forget that, often, he was a monster too for those people.   
“Stop brooding, I can hear your brain creaking from here” Jaskier admonishes, balancing his weight again to use the hand that was on his side to open the door and carry him inside: he was really thinking to hard, he realizes, if he failed to notice that the stairs had ended and that Jaskier managed to keep him upright the whole time.   
Not an easy feat, that.   
The bard helps him sit on the bed and takes a breath, cracking his neck and looking at him.  
“You weight a ton, Geralt. What the fuck are you made of, lead?”  
The witcher doesn’t answer, too winded to even think about speaking, and Jaskier hums assessing the damage.  
“Your eyes look fine” He starts, kneeling in front of him and caressing his hair, brushing them behind his ears, then he starts undoing his shirts laces and slips it off his good arm, his head and, finally, his bruised right arm. Geralt’s torso is a collection of fresh bruises and scrapes, some deep enough to require stitches, and Jaskier hisses.  
“Does thus hurt?” He enquires, hands ghosting over the witcher’s ribs. Geralt looks at him and shrugs.  
“Just if I breathe”  
“Just if you...are you kidding me?”  
Jaskier’s eyes are huge as he looks at him, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, and he’s quick to pile up the few pillows they’ve been given and force Geralt to lay down on them, easing the pressure on his ribcage and his back.  
“Should have told me, you huge oaf” He mutters, starting on Geralt’s trousers and easing them down his hips, smacking his lips at the new wounds he discovers there.  
“These are going to scar” He winces, checking some deep scratches on the witcher’s tight, right above his left knee “Well, what’s one more, right?”  
He concludes with a smile starting to clean him up, as Geralt’s stomach plummets to his feet and stays there, dread freezing his lungs.  
-  
Geralt is silent, and there’s nothing strange with that: he’s brooding on a good day, and absolutely non verbal on a bad one, but this...this is too much even for him. He’s...absent, like he’s not even there, long hair covering his face. Like he’s thinking about something that hurts him too much to give it voice.  
“Geralt?”  
Jaskier tries to coax him out of his head but the witcher doesn’t even grunt, looking at the long line of fresh stitches that adorn his bruised leg. Jaskier moves to enter his line of vision, and doesn’t like what he sees. Geralt’s golden eyes are hard and unfocussed, hands clenched: the witcher is still lost in his thoughts, and it doesn’t look like they’re good ones. The opposite, actually.  
“Geralt” Jaskier calls again, and Geralt’s eyes move and find his face. He looks wounded. Hurt. And it makes Jaskier’s breath hitch in his throat.  
“Geralt” He repeats for the third time, drawing a line from the witcher’s cheek to his cheekbone with the pad of his fingers “Hey. What’s wrong?”  
Geralt doesn’t move, just swallows and looks down at his stomach: there’s a web of scars, there, criss-crossing his kin in all directions in a spidery painting of violence. He bites his lips and does something he’s never done before.   
Geralt covers himself with the woollen blanket in a move so painful it hurts to see.  
“Geralt” The bard says, horrified at Geralt’s pained expression “What’s happening? Was it something I said?”  
Geralt still won’t answer. Can’t answer. It’s not just that he sucks with words, they literally die in his throat every time he tries to express how he feels, and right now he feels like he’s choking, drowning on land. He opens his mouth, closes it, and tightens his grip on the blanket even more, knuckles whitening. Jaskier’s fingers are caressing his hand now, but all he can hear is Jaskier’s voice saying “Well, what’s one more, right?”.  
He knows he’s covered in scars, he’s made of scars in a way. And knows they’re not pretty to look at: they’re hideous, and he can’t even cover them up like mages do. Actually, he had never thought about covering them until that moment, but with Jaskier commenting on them like that he feels the need to do so, and the blanket was the easiest solution.   
-  
Jaskier is at a loss: Geralt looks so dejected it makes his chest ache, and he doesn’t know what to do to make it better or why is Geralt like that, then he looks at the hand he’s caressing, clenched around the fabric, and understands.  
Oh shit. He fucked up. Big.  
“Gods Geralt, no” He starts, frantic, scrambling to his feet and cupping the witcher’s face. Geralt’s eyes grow huge in seconds, but he still won’t look at him “Geralt, please. Look at me?”  
It takes a while but Geralt’s eyes move to meet his own and fuck, they’re so open. And he did it. Witchers don’t feel? Oh, this is one of the greatest lie of the whole damned universe.  
“Geralt” He pleads “Please. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re beautiful. Your scars are beautiful”.  
Geralt growls, ripping his head from Jaskier’s grip and baring his teeth.  
“Don’t you dare” He spats and shit, he’s scary. But Jaskier has this mess to solve, and he will solve it. He won’t lose Geralt for a misunderstanding, won’t let him think less of himself because of the marks he carries on his skin.  
“I’m serious” He answers, thumbs caressing the witcher’s cheekbones “Geralt, I’m serious. I just meant that your scars don’t bother me. They’re just you. They mean that you fought and are still standing. Still with me. And I’m so glad you are. So, so fucking glad”.  
Is he crying? Fuck, he’s crying, and Geralt looks at him with such big, surprised eyes.  
“Jaskier?” He rasps, and then there are rough fingers drying the tears from his cheeks “Why are you crying?”  
Why is he crying? Fuck if it isn’t a great question. But he doesn’t even need to think about it, he knows already.  
“Because I hurt you” He answers, voice wet and trembling “Even if I didn’t want to. Even if I meant something else. And it’s something I swore to myself I would never do”.  
Geralt’s throat works and his gaze wavers, then he nods and wets his lips.  
“Alright” He murmurs after a while. He doesn’t know how to react, he’s never been with someone that cares so much about what he thinks and how he feels, and then Jaskier came and his whole world went upside down. Let’s face it: he sucks with everything concerning emotions and affection, but Jaskier is slowly teaching him what can be learnt, what he can let himself have, filling him with love and care at every turn.   
“Alright?” Jaskier repeats, exhaling, eyes pleading “You sure?”  
Geralt would like to ask him to stop with the questions: it’s already hard as it is without having to thing about even more answers, but he just nods with eyes still full of wonder because he believes Jaskier, he really does. So yes, it really is alright.  
“Fuck” Jaskier mutters, deflating, and lets his forehead rest against Geralt’s naked shoulder “Fuck. Thank you, Geralt. I’m so sorry I hurt you”  
“It’s...ok”  
Geralt’s voice shakes. And it’s not the same but fuck, he’s shaking all over and it’s freezing cold in there, even with the fire still going.  
“Come on” Jaskier urges, helping Geralt to his feet and guiding him to the bath tub, mindful of his injuries. The witcher hisses when the hot water touches his wounds, but Jaskier is already washing away blood and grime from his skin and hair, and it helps him relax. Then Jaskier’s lips are on his scarred skin, kissing every mark on his shoulders, and he shudders.  
“You are beautiful” Jaskier keeps on repeating like a mantra, trying to make his adoration get through Geralt’s skin and reach his blood, getting transported around in his whole body “Your scars are beautiful. Allow me to demonstrate?”  
There is a smile hidden in Jaskier’s voice: Geralt tilts his head backwards and hums, then hooks his god arm around the bard’s neck making him bend until his lips are close enough to be kissed.  
“Alright” He repeats.


	13. Under your scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, since Geralt is not shying away from his eyes, he decides to put his time to good use peering at him from under his dark fringe. He should really use a haircut, his hair are starting to get in his eyes really, but then a gust of wind makes the witcher’s white locks swing in the breeze and the first snowflakes start falling and gods. He feels so lucky to be there, cold be damned.

Under your scars I pray  
You're like a shooting star in the rain  
You're everything that feels like home to me

Godsmack - Under your scars

It’s god awful cold, that kind of cold that makes you understand why some wise animals decide to sleep the whole winter away, makes all the light go bluish and wonder why the fuck re you stranded in the middle of nowhere, fuckland. There’s a small fire going in the middle of their camp, and Roach is munching quietly on some frozen grass, but that’s all: Jaskier is still waiting for Geralt to stop meditating, so they can leave that god forsaken place and reach a town, even the shittiest would be great at that point, to get a warm bath and a dry, safe, comfortable room. Because he’s just decided that he’s going to book a room in the best inn in the next town: he’s got enough coin, tank you very much. And they both could use the respite: the last weeks have been full of monsters and freezing nights, and Jaskier’s muscles are so tense he fears they might snap should he have to sleep in the cold once more.  
He huffs, sniffling, and starts pacing around the campfire keeping it going. Then he spots Geralt, sitting just a few steps away, and decided to investigate: maybe the witcher is almost done, he’s been sitting unmoving for nearly two hours, now, and it’s a lot even for him. Jaskier bypasses a couple of trees, bare of leaves, and reaches the witcher. No such luck, he thinks: Geralt’s eyes are still closed, his form unmoving, his breath even. Still meditating, then. Jaskier sighs and plops down on the hard ground in front of him, keeping his head up with one fisted hand.   
Well, he could use the time he’s forced to spend there to observe him he supposes, since Geralt doesn’t really like being stared at. Ha can understand why, with all the glares he receives from people just for getting inside a tavern or existing in general, but come on: how how could he resist when Geralt is so handsome? He’s told him he’s beautiful countless times, but the witcher has never really believed him. It saddens Jaskier, thinking about how Geralt must perceive himself.   
So, since Geralt is not shying away from his eyes, he decides to put his time to good use peering at him from under his dark fringe. He should really use a haircut, his hair are starting to get in his eyes really, but then a gust of wind makes the witcher’s white locks swing in the breeze and the first snowflakes start falling and gods. He feels so lucky to be there, cold be damned.  
Because Geralt is not only beautiful: he looks sacred right now, like some woodland creature he was lucky enough to spot. With his pale skin and white hair he looks like the personification of winter, dark clothes the only thing helping Jaskier to distinguish him from the snowy landscape. He could be mistaken for a statue if not for the small puffs of breath escaping his nose and lips.  
He looks...fuck, he looks peaceful for once, and Jaskier feels guilty for having hoped that Geralt’s meditation time was already finished.   
Geralt breathes in and out slowly, and Jaskier feels himself imitating him, feeling his anxiety and need to leave the woods slowly ebb away. He’d spend the whole day there if it means he’d be granted the honour to admire Geralt like that.  
The man is a mystery and so, so fascinating. He’s powerful, frighteningly so: Jaskier has seen him fight and kill for years, and it never stopped being a graceful dance to him. Sure, he knows that Geralt’s job is a dirty one, and it’s even cruel sometimes, but he’s not. He’s not cruel, and he’s not the demonic beast people want to see when they meet him. He wouldn’t dare to call him soft, because he’s not: he’s been hardened by pain and experiences. But there’s something hidden under his actions, so much care and unspoken tenderness. He can’t afford to be soft, a soft witcher is a dead one, so he makes up with gentle hands every time he touches Jaskier, and with utter attention with children and endangered people. And Jaskier notices how those hands, now relaxed on Geralt’s tights but often covered in wounds, blood and grime, can actually save people. Unlike much of those self appointed sorcerers that pretend to be able to cure and help. With Geralt Jaskier feels safe and protected, loved and cared for, and he hopes to be doing the same for his witcher because it looks like very few people did.   
He will take care of him for as long as needed, his whole life should it come to that, because Geralt is worth it. Geralt, with his golden eyes and white hair, with his guarded demeanour and fleeting smile, is the most precious thing in the bard’s whole existence. And it feels both exhilarating and terrifying to him.  
Now said witcher is kneeling in the snow, breath slow and regular, and Jaskier is so sure he can’t hear him that he vocalizes what he feels.  
“I just wish you could see yourself through my eyes”  
“And what should that mean?”  
Grumbles the witcher with a smirk, raising one eyebrow, and Jaskier chokes.   
“What the...you were awake!”  
Geralt opens his eyes and smiles, raising slowly to his feet.  
“I was never asleep, Jaskier” He answers, and Jaskier follows him back to their camp.  
“It means that people don’t know you and judge you anyway” He says after a while, looking at Geralt as he warms up his hands to the fire “It means that you are so much better and so much more than they think. Than you think. And I wish you could see that”.  
Geralt doesn’t move from his spot, crouched in front of the fire, then shakes his head.  
“And what if I’m not?” He asks, uncertain “What if I’m just...this?” He gestures to himself with one hand, and Jaskier smiles.”  
“That it will be perfect anyway, for me”  
Geralt smiles and huffs out a laugh getting to his feet, dusting his trousers and reaching for the bard with one big hand.  
“Foolish bard” He mutters against Jaskier’s hair.


	14. This night

There's a game  
That I play  
There are rules  
I had to break  
There's mistakes  
That I made  
But I made them  
My way

So take this night  
Wrap it around me like a sheet  
I know I'm not forgiven  
But I need a place to sleep  
So take this night  
And lay me down on the street  
I know I'm not forgiven  
But I hope that I'll be given  
Some peace.  
This night - Black Lab

Geralt’s hunts are always dangerous, but this one wins the prize:the corpses they’ve been shown aren’t just...well, dead. They’ve been slain, torn to pieces, open wounds covering both bodies, blood spattered in the whole barn, or what’s left of it. And one arm is still dangling from the barn’s highest beam, dripping blood on one of the kids face. Because the corpses belong to two children, the oldest being barely 10, and this is bad. Fuck, this is so bad.  
Jaskier has to swallow a few times to stop himself from puking but Geralt just looks at the children, golden eyes stoic as ever, and then curses under his breath.  
“The third brother, the oldest, is nowhere to be found. The beast must have taken him” The village chief says wringing his hands “Can you save him, witcher?”  
Geralt just nods and doesn’t say what he thinks. Doesn’t say that the kid is probably dead too, because the creature that slaughtered those children is surely a werewolf, and werewolves take no hostages. He’d try and save the beast too, but this level of frenzy, of madness, is hard to work with. It must be either very old, driven by power and hunger, or very young and turned for the first time, incapable of controlling itself. He shudders, thinking about who could have done this. Maybe the children knew it. Maybe they were friends. This hunt sucks already.  
He hums and turns around, where the actual motive of his silence is huddled in Jaskier’s embrace, shaking and crying: you can’t tell to a mother that just lost two children that her last one is probably dead too, so he forces himself to be helpful and puts one hand on her arm. She looks so small, he thinks. So broken.  
“Can you describe your son to me?” He asks, trying to reassure her as Jaskier mouths the kid’s name to him.  
Jakub. His name is Jakub. Geralt nods and looks at the woman again.  
“He...he’s this tall” She starts, one trembling hand rising to the height of Geralt’s hip “Small for his age, he is. He’s twelve. Blonde hair. Green eyes. He’s...”  
She can’t go on, breaking down again, and Jaskier does his best to comfort her. Geralt is grateful for his presence, he never knows what to do in those circumstances. He cares, he just doesn’t know how to express it.  
Geralt turns towards the children again. So small. Fuck, they were so small, and they must have been so scared: the stench of fear is still lingering, and it’s making him sick. They were terrified, and no one was there to save them. He wasn’t there to save them.  
But he won’t let it happen again.  
-  
It takes days for the moon to be full again and they spend those days in the woods, looking for the disappeared third brother with constantly decreasing hope to find him, the mother wasting away before their eyes and despite the efforts of her husband. But the night of the full moon goes differently: Geralt prepares himself more accurately than ever, checking his potions stock, polishing his swords and wearing his armour with the utmost care, then he swallows cat before leaving, and that’s always a bad sign: Jaskier knows that when it happens Geralt really risks not to come back and, with such a crazed werewolf, the possibility is awfully concrete.  
He has to squash down the need to seize him and make him stay back, pray him to stop and let someone else take care of everything. To stay alive, and safe, for him. But when the witcher turns his pitch black gaze on him, dark veins surrounding his eyes, he knows he could never do it: Geralt is too ready for battle to stop. So he wears his boots and his warmest coat and follows him outside, leaving Roach behind not to endanger her.  
He envies her, resting in her warm stable with food at the ready, while they enter the cold, dark forest that surrounds the small village. Geralt is already in hunting mode: his nostrils flare, his eyes are unblinking, constantly open, and his steps are so silent they’re ghostlike. Jaskier admires him, he’s not ashamed to admit it. He’s even more beautiful like this, feral and deadly.  
They’ve been walking for a while, and Jaskier’s teeth are starting to chatter when Geralt holds up his left hand and moves his right on the hilt of his silver sword, unsheathing it, and Jaskier knows it’s time to hide because the silence, now is deafening. And if even mother nature is reluctant to let herself be heard...well fuck. There has to be something horribly wrong.  
Geralt crouches and points to some rocks, big enough for Jaskier to hide behind and be safe, and a low growl resonates from the trees. There’s just that awful silence, and that growling sound from the darkness, and it’s enough to make Jaskier’s hair stand on the back of his neck. This is what fear tastes like, he realizes when an acrid sensation invades his mouth, with an aftertaste of excitement and dread.  
And then the thing jumps on the witcher from behind, literally flying over the bard’s head. It would be epic if not for Geralt’s pained grunts and the blood oozing from his back.  
Geralt pushes the werewolf away and his black eyes widen taking the beast in: it’s not as big as Jaskier thought, more or less as tall as the bard, but it’s imposing and bulky, a growling mess of claws, teeth and muscles. The werewolf tilts its head, sniffles and roars, leaping again and landing on Geralt’s sword arm, the sword clattering to the ground followed by the witcher himself. Geralt rolls just in time to avoid the beast’s claws and grips his blade, impaling it in one go. Young and inexperienced, that’s what it was.  
And the werewolf’s body becomes smaller and smaller, the perfect shape of a child with blonde hair and green eyes. He looks younger than his age, he must be around twelve.  
His mother was right, Jakub really looks small.  
Jaskier’s breath hitches but Geralt keeps on moving, cradling the child’s body to his bloodied chest, sheathing the sword on his back and starting the walk back to the village under Jaskier’s incredulous gaze. Geralt is just so emotionless, detached, and it makes the bard’s skin crawl.  
“Fucking...Geralt, that’s Jakub!”  
“Good observation” The witcher replies without stopping, getting closer and closer to where Jaskier is standing. And Jaskier doesn’t want to see the kid’s body, the gaping wound dripping blood in the middle of his chest. And he hates Geralt, hates him for being so businesslike while carrying that small child.  
“He was just a boy, Geralt!” He growls, and Geralt merely stops and turns to look at him arching one eyebrow.  
“It was a werewolf”  
And Jaskier can’t stop himself: he slaps the witcher as hard as he can, the witcher’s head snapping to the side with the force of the blow. The bards looks at him, hisses a curse and runs to the village leaving him behind. Because that’s not his Geralt, not the witcher he knows. And he doesn’t know what to do with it.  
-  
The consequences of the hunt are predictable: as soon as they appear from the line of the trees a small group of people gathers around Geralt and his small cargo, and the screams bring the mother there. She takes her child in, the wound in his tiny body, and starts screaming, hitting the witcher with words and fists, calling him a murderer and a monster.  
And Jaskier doesn’t stop her, because for the first time he can’t see Geralt the way he always does. Geralt is stone like while he lets the mother rip Jakub from his arms and run back to her farm, and keeps his emotionless demeanour even when the villagers start throwing rocks and insults at him, wounding his head, making him bleed.  
Usually Jaskier would intervene, defending Geralt like a fury, but after what he witnessed he just stays silent, to the side, and moves only when the witcher starts walking towards the stables where Roach is sheltered. He follows, not sure if he’ll want to travel with him ever again.  
-  
The stables are warm, and Geralt is patting his mare’s neck: Jaskier looks at him and then to the side, clearing his throat.  
“He was a child, Geralt” He deadpans, and Geralt doesn’t even turn to face him. It makes his blood boil, anger taking control of him.  
“He was a child!” He screams, on the edge of tears, and grabs Geralt’s arm forcing him to turn around “A child! And you didn’t even...”  
“You think I don’t know?” The witcher roars, eyes back to their usual gold and so, so wide “You think...”  
His voice cracks and fuck, Jaskier should have known. He should have known because he knows Geralt, and should have put his faith in him even if it’s so hard, sometimes, with the way he behaves. But now his witcher is crying, and it’s the first time he sees it happen and fuck, he wasn’t even sure he could do it.  
And it’s stupid, because it looks like he can, fuck, he can and, as soon as Geralt realizes what’s happening, he turns around again and moves to free Roach from her post and get out in the cold, foggy morning air.  
He won’t let him leave like that. He can’t. He was wrong, disastrously wrong, and now Geralt is broken because he had to kill a child and Jaskier believed him to be heartless on top of it.  
So, fuck, he’s not going to let him leave like that.  
Jaskier literally jumps on Geralt’s back, thinking too late about the wounds on his back, and locks his arms around the witcher’s neck.  
And Geralt freezes.  
The only thing that keeps on moving is his chest, breath hitching, as a wheeze escapes his lips.  
“I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m so sorry” He repeats, not even breathing between words, but Geralt just stands there, unmoving, and Jaskier is scared he’s lost him. He made a huge mistake, judged him like everyone else does, hurt him like everyone else does and like he swore he never would. He lets the witcher go and walks around him, and what he sees makes his blood freeze.  
Geralt’s eyes are tightly shut, mouth closed in a firm line as he tries to swallow his sobs biting his bottom lip, head bent low. The hand holding Roach’s reins is shaking, and Jaskier knows that his knuckles are white even if he can’t see them under his black leather gauntlet.  
Geralt is a twisted, huge knot of barely repressed pain and Jaskier didn’t help at all. He made it worse, actually, and now he’s stalling, looking at the witcher and trying to gather the courage to even touch him.  
Because he’s scared of breaking him, shattering him, making him run. He won’t be able to see him again, not like he’s had the luck to see him until that damned moment. More open and carefree, smiling and serene. And he doesn’t want it to happen.  
“Geralt” He chokes out, and Geralt takes a step back. It breaks Jaskier’s heart, and forces him to take a step closer to compensate until Geralt’s back is pressed against the wall and Roach just stands there, looking at the bard that seems to be cornering her master.  
“Geralt, please” Jaskier begs, feeling like crying too, and Geralt’s tears just don’t stop falling. Geralt slides down and covers his face with one hand, shoulders shaking, and Jaskier follows him, caressing his hair and brushing white locks behind his ears. He hugs him after a while, gathering his courage and cradling Geralt to his chest just like the witcher did with Jakub’s body. Geralt shudders and then lets out a broken sob, and Jaskier’s hand start roaming on his shoulders, keeping him as humanly close as possible.  
“I’m so sorry, love” He repeats against Geralt’s hair “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I didn’t...”  
“I had to”  
Geralt’s voice sounds hoarse and wet and so, so wrong, but it’s the first thing he says since this whole mess started and it’s enough to silence the bard, waiting for Geralt to say something else.  
“I had to” He repeats, and that’s it: Geralt crumbles in Jaskier’s arms “I had to, Jaskier, I had to. He was too far gone, I had to, He would have killed again. I have to be like that or I’ll go crazy. He was so small. Fuck, he was so small”.  
Geralt is rambling, breath hitching, and he’s still crying. It’s the most painful thing Jaskier has ever seen.  
“No, Geralt” Jaskier shushes him trying to make him raise his head, hands on the witcher’s cheeks “I know you’re not like that, I know. Please, love, look at me?”  
He’s praying, now, hoping for Geralt’s forgiveness of even just for Geralt to look at him. And Geralt does, yellow eyes red and puffy but so open. It’s the first time that Geralt cries in front of him, and he doesn’t know how to help. Jaskier thumbs as his cheeks, drying them, then kisses the witcher’s forehead and holds him again.  
“Forgive me” He breathes out, desperate “Please, love. Forgive me?”  
Geralt nods. He always forgives him, even when he doesn’t really deserves it. It’s just hard, sometimes, to forget that Geralt’s coldness is mostly a facade. But that’s beside the point: he’s got a witcher to care for now, and said witcher is a mess of tears and wounds that need to be cleaned up and stitched. He starts humming and waits for Geralt to calm down, caressing his scalp and keeping him close with one hand on his neck even when his legs start cramping. He stays there with Geralt because that’s his place, at his witcher’s side.  
It takes a while but Geralt’s breath evens, he raises his eyes to look at Jaskier and the bard is elated to see him a bit more calm.  
“I’m so sorry, love” He repeats, using the pet name again and again “I know you had to. I swear I know, love. I trust you. I know”.  
Geralt swallows then starts breathing again, letting his head fall on his bard’s shoulder.  
“Come on” He hears “Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?”  
Geralt nods, but then freezes.  
“Not here” He mutters, frantic “I can’t stay here”  
“Shhh darling, I know. Come on, up you go” Jaskier answers shouldering some of his weight “We’ll find a nice clearing and a river and I’ll help you out of those clothes, stitch your wounds, clean your hair and I will fucking force you to sleep, witcher dear, because you fucking need it”  
“Hm. As if I could stop you”  
“No, you can’t. Ready?”  
“As I will ever be”  
Jaskier hauls him up in a swift move, and Geralt bites back a groan as his wounds make themselves known.  
There are nightmares that night, and the nights that follow: dreams of blood and teeth and claws and dead children. But Jaskier is there, full of guilt that will take a while to ease and love that won’t ever diminish. He’s always there.  
And it looks like he’s not going anywhere.


	15. Watch over you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is convalescing, you might say: the last hunt left him tired and wounded, so he’s lazing in the sun in the field behind the inn they’re staying in, and is just on the brink of needed, lovely sleep when he hears it.  
> “Mr. Jaskier, your friend scares me”  
> And, well. It’s not exactly nice, but he’s used to that enough not to feel bad.

You say you care for me  
But hide it well  
How can you love someone  
And not yourself?  
And who is gonna save you  
When I'm gone?  
And who'll watch over you  
When I'm gone?

Alter Bridge - Watch over you

The girl is small, really. Not older than ten or nine, with dark eyes and hair so black they look blues. She jumps around Jaskier with ease and a smile that could light up a whole dark room, but shies away from Geralt every time the witcher does as much as move a finger. It’s not unusual, children are often scared by his presence. And his appearance. And his expression.   
When they’re not scared they’re fascinated, try to follow him everywhere and end up in trouble.   
So Geralt supposes it’s better if they’re scared, for them. As for him...well. He’s used to it, and likes his quiet: a child isn’t really a silent thing, and he sucks at small talking. That would be awkward.   
And he’d have to save them should they really manage to follow him: it happened. Just once, but it’s been more than enough.  
Anyway.  
Geralt is convalescing, you might say: the last hunt left him tired and wounded, so he’s lazing in the sun in the field behind the inn they’re staying in, and is just on the brink of needed, lovely sleep when he hears it.  
“Mr. Jaskier, your friend scares me”  
And, well. It’s not exactly nice, but he’s used to that enough not to feel bad. Too bad, at least. What could he do about it, anyway? And, honestly, he doesn’t think he’d do a thing even if he knew what to do. But it looks like Jaskier has a different opinion.  
“Who, Geralt?”  
He asks, and the witcher opens one eye just enough not to be seen, pretending to be still asleep, and sees the bard as he sits cross-legged, the child on his lap. The little girl nods, side eyeing the witcher, and Geralt closes his eyes again, still as a statue in the sun.  
He’s sleeping. Of course he is.  
“Well, Lena” Jaskier starts, and Geralt takes notice of the kid’s name “He looks imposing, and you should see his scary face! But he’s a big softie underneath all that”.  
Lena is silent, and Geralt has to make an effort not to snort. He still can’t see a thing, but won’t open his eyes: he’s too curious to know where this whole thing is going.  
“How do you know that?”  
The girl, Lena, asks after a little while, and Jaskier laughs.  
“Oh, my dear girl: I could recount many a story to convince you, but I’ll just tell you this. I know him, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had. He loves his horse and saves people, even when people are mean to him and sometimes don’t want to pay him because of what he is. He’s my friend, and I love him dearly”.  
Well, that’s simply incorrect. He’s no saint, he just does his job and gets paid for it. Most of the times.  
“What’s his horse name?”  
“She’s called Roach, and she’s a beautiful chestnut mare, a really good girl. Do you like horses?”  
Lena giggles before answering.  
“Yes. We have two at home, and a dog. And a cat. Does your friend like cats?”  
“Well, he doesn’t seem to mind them. Dogs are a different story”  
“Why?”  
Jaskier hesitates.  
“Because they don’t really like him”  
They smell the wolf, muses Geralt. Feel the predator. Cats just don’t care about that. He nearly smiles. He likes cats, actually.  
“My aunt says that if a dog doesn’t like you, you’re a bad guy”  
“Well, and is your aunt always right?”  
“No” Lena giggles again “She isn’t”  
“Well then, that’s settled” Laughs Jaskier clapping his hands “Anyway, what’s so scary about my friend, princess?”  
Something warm settles in the pit of Geralt’s stomach at Jaskier’s words, and stays there.  
“Well” Lena starts, insecure “He’s so big, and his eyes are...” She doesn’t finish, probably pointing at her own eyes as she speaks, but it’s not needed: Geralt knows that his eyes can be upsetting for most people.  
“I think they’re beautiful” Replies Jaskier “They catch the light like two small suns, you seen, and he can even see in the dark better than us! You know, I always thought he’s got kitty eyes, but don’t tell him”  
Lena giggles again, and Geralt nearly chokes. Kitty eyes? What the fuck?  
“When he came back from the forest his eyes were black”   
Lena says in a small voice.  
“Those were the potions. You see, he needs them to fight, and that particular potion is very useful to see in the dark”  
“But you said he can see in the dark better than us with his kitty eyes!”  
That’s it. He’ll have to kill Jaskier.  
“Well, yes” Explains the bard “But it also helps with strength and quickness, and when it’s really dark he needs every extra help possible”.  
“He was scary”  
“He has to be” Jaskier laughs “He fights monsters!”  
It makes sense, in a way. Lena is silent for a bit, and then starts with the questions again.  
“How old are you?” Jaskier huffs an affronted gasp and Lena giggles “And him?” She goes on.  
And they both get silent.  
Weird.  
“I don’t know” Mutters Jaskier “Older than me, much older. Witchers age slowly, and he never told me his actual age. He’s seen so many things, my dear. Done so many things. Beautiful and horrible both. But trust me when I tell you that most of the bad things he did, he was forced to do”.  
Geralt swallows: Jaskier has such a high opinion of him, but he really doesn’t believe it about himself. He did what he had to do, period.  
Which is actually what the bard just said.   
Well, fuck.  
“He has fought and suffered, and still fights and suffers” Jaskier concludes “A bad person could never do that. But I’m scared too, princess”.  
Lena moves, Geralt feels his stomach drop to his feet. Jaskier is scared? Of him? Shit, this hurts.  
“Of what?”  
The girl asks, and Geralt holds his breath. He needs to know, but he’s scared to death by the answer. What did he do to scare the bard? He’ll never do that again, he swears. Never.  
“I worry about him, you know? I worry because he’ll outlive me, will live much longer than me, and will be alone again. If I could be sure he’ll be alright...but alas, I can’t”  
Geralt’s stomach stays where he’s fallen before, even Lena keeps silent. All he can hear are their breaths and the wind in the tall grass.  
“But these are not conversations apt for such a beautiful day!” Says the bard cheerfully “Why don’t you go and find some more flowers, hm?”  
Lena claps her hands and runs away, her small, bare feet thumping on the ground, and Jaskier exhales.  
“You’re awake” He states, and it’s not a question. So Geralt has no choice but to open his eyes, covering them for a second to let them adjust to the brightness of the sun. He hums, looking at the sky. So blue.  
“You heard everything?”  
He hums again, taking note of the lone, white cloud above them. Jaskier nods.  
“I’m really worried about you, you know?” He croaks “All the time”  
The guilt Geralt feels is crushing: he knows he’s not talking about his longevity alone, even if it’s a big part of it. A witcher’s life is not easy, and death by old age is extremely rare.  
“I will be careful” He rasps “For you. Promise”  
“That’s good to hear. And should you find a way to make me immortal just let me know”.  
Jaskier smiles, resting his weight on his elbows.  
“I know a couple of vampires, if you don’t mind the idea”  
The bard hits him on the chest.  
“As a matter of fact, I do”  
Lena careens against the bard, making him laugh and showering him in flowers, but then she turns around and looks at Geralt.  
“Do you like cats, Mr. Geralt?”


	16. Devil's backbone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nah, he’s fine”  
> Jaskier always says it when someone barges in the inn they’re staying in with news of the witcher’s gruesome passing: at the beginning it always scared him, now not anymore. He just sighs, states “Nah, he’s fine” and tells the innkeeper to ready a tankard of good ale “for fuck’s sake. Geralt won’t be happy should you dilute it, my good man”.

Don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not  
He's good and he's bad and he's all that I've got  
Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm begging you please  
Don't take that sinner from me  
The Civil Wars - Devil's backbone

“Nah, he’s fine”  
Jaskier always says it when someone barges in the inn they’re staying in with news of the witcher’s gruesome passing: at the beginning it always scared him, now not anymore. He just sighs, states “Nah, he’s fine” and tells the innkeeper to ready a tankard of good ale “for fuck’s sake. Geralt won’t be happy should you dilute it, my good man”.   
That’s how it always goes, that’s how it should always go when he doesn’t follow Geralt in one of his hunts, forced to stay back by a growling witcher because “It’s too dangerous, and you’d be a distraction”. He knows better than to get offended, because he knows it’s true: he’s seen what happens when Geralt has to fight to kill the monster and protect him, and it has never ended well, and he hates to see him get hurt. He loves his music but he loves his witcher a lot more, and likes him in one piece thank you very much.  
So that’s what he says when one of the men that offered to guide Geralt to the kikimore’s lair barges in covered in mud and rainwater. It always rains on a difficult hunt, Jaskier wonders if it means something or if it’s just their general shitty luck.   
He just says it, says “Nah, it’s fine”, but then the man (Filip, if he’s not mistaken) plants his hands on the table he’s sitting at and shakes it, shakes it so hard he makes the bard’s beer slosh dangerously. He’d tell him to fuck off if not for the look in his eyes.   
He’s scared. Terrified.   
“You’re not listening” He growls “That thing bit off a nice portion of your friend’s leg. With its fucking teeth”.  
Everything stops. Everything goes silent but for the ugly noise of his own blood rushing in his ears, and the world tilts for a couple of seconds until Jaskier forces his throat to work.  
“Where is he?” He croaks, and Filip grabs him by one arm and drags him outside: two men are helping Geralt to get off Roach, and Jaskier can’t really see a thing because it’s dark already, the sky a deep shade of grey, and the rain is so heavy he feels every drop that lands on him. It’s when they carry Geralt inside, following them like a dazed dog, that it all falls on him.   
“Get him to our room” He manages to order with what sounds like a minimum of authority and the men look at him, grumble something under their breath and carry the wounded witcher through a door and into a dark corridor, Jaskier running ahead to open the door, help them deposit Geralt on the bed and take off his armour. He still hasn’t taken a good look at him, but he will have to. Very soon.  
“His eyes are all wrong” He hears Filip mutter and turns to see the man standing there and drying his hands on a dirty rag, the motion more automatic than actually useful “All black. No pupils”.  
“Yes, it’s the potions” Jaskier explains “Could you call the healer? And could we have some clean, boiled water and...” And what, Jaskier? You already have your sewing kit, but it’s a whole chunk of muscle and flesh that Geralt is missing from his leg, how are you going to stitch that? But the men just nod and get out, and all he can do now is take stock of what happened to his witcher.  
He’s seen Geralt wounded, but not like this: the shape of the bite is clear on Geralt’s tight, Jaskier can see where the fangs pierced, torn and ripped off a chunk of muscle bigger than his fist. And there’s so much blood. He’s grateful for Geralt’s unnaturally slow heartbeat, but the blood is so fucking much: Geralt’s leg is drenched in red, and the covers are starting to turn a dark shade of purple too.  
“Shit” he mutters taking in Geralt’s slack, too pale face “Shit, Geralt, shit!”  
Jaskier covers his mouth with both hands, closes his eyes and inhales, shaking his head. Not it’s not the time to panic, he’ll have all the time to do it later, and even to puke and cry: Geralt needs him, and he won’t let him down. Ever.  
He starts with his boots, sliding them off and letting them fall to the ground, trying to ignore the red liquid that one of them contained, and that is now forming a small puddle under the bed, then he tries to unfasten his trousers and has to stop, because his hands shake too fucking much he can’t grip the laces, and he feels like crying.  
There’s a big, cold hand on his slightly smaller ones then, and Geralt is looking at him with pained, tired eyes and shit, he hoped he would be out of all of this.  
Jaskier bites his lip and takes Geralt’s hand in one of his, the other finally managing to unfasten the black leather trousers, and then he reaches behind him and grabs his knife, waiting for Geralt’s nod: as soon as he gets it, and it’s a tiny, drained thing, he cuts the trousers at the seams and manages to swipe them from under Geralt’s hips, trying to be as careful as possible. His small clothes meet the same fate, and the witcher is left with just his black, dirty shirt on, naked from the waist down.  
Jaskier’s eyes are transfixed on the wound, because the jostling made it bleed even more, but then he looks at Geralt’s face and freezes: he’s panting, eyes screwed shut, bottom lip trapped between his teeth and hands clenching the bloodied sheet so hard and Jaskier has to move, he has to move because he’s still bleeding so much and hurting, and he has to help him, he has to.   
He finds some clean linens in his own backpack, then sits at Geralt’s side and caresses his hair.  
“I’m sorry, love” He rasps, thumb stroking the witcher’s forehead “I’m so sorry” And he presses the bundle of bandages against the wound.  
The reaction is immediate: Geralt arches from the bed, mouth opened in a silent scream, and falls back with a groan, panting even more.  
“Shhh” Shushes Jaskier, frantic, one hand still keeping the makeshift tampon on Geralt’s tight to staunch the bleeding, the other’s fingers tangles in Geralt’s hair “Sorry, I’m so sorry”.  
Geralt moans and shudders, then opens his eyes again and nods, making Jaskier’s stomach unclench slightly.  
“Can you” He asks, but has to stop to clear his throat “Can you keep it there for me? Just a few minutes, I need to take your shirt off”  
He waits for a beat, two beats, and then Geralt nods again and lets Jaskier take his hand, guiding it down to keep pressure on the wound: the witcher pales even more, if possible, bud doesn’t say a thing.  
“Alright” Jaskier mutters “Alright. Keep it there. Just a few seconds, just...”  
He slides Geralt’s shirt from his arm and his head, replaces his hand on the already drenched fabric and takes the shirt off completely.  
“Good” He breathes out “You did so good, darling”  
Geralt growls something unintelligible, maybe on the line of “Don’t patronize me, bard”, but Jaskier is beyond caring at that point: Geralt’s chest is marred with deep scratches and newly formed bruises, his leg is still bleeding like crazy and where the fuck is that healer?  
He swears under his breath and takes stock of the damage inflicted by the kikimore, swears again and looks at Geralt, knowing all too well that he won’t like what he’s going to ask him.  
“Geralt” He starts, cupping the witcher’s face with his free hand “I have to patch you up. Can you keep the fabric here, on your tight? It’s starting to work, love. Do you feel like you can do it?”  
There’s a second of silence, then Geralt coughs and nods without opening his eyes. He’s burning already, and Jaskier tries to remember if kikimoras are venomous or not, of is it’s the infection already setting. Either way, that’s an awful sign.  
Te witcher wets his lips and moves his hand to do as he’s told, and Jaskier has to press his hand against the wound because his grip is already weakening Geralt clenches his teeth, and the bard hates himself for the pain he’s putting him through.  
“You got anything for pain in those bags of yours?” He asks, ans is dismayed when Geralt shakes his head no. How comes he has something for everything and misses something so basic from his potions stock? Jaskier shakes his head and cracks his fingers, keeping an eye on Geralt’s hand: it’s shaking, so he better move with the wounds on his chest.  
“Is your back alright?” He asks, and hums when the witcher nods, then starts working.  
Those are wounds he can work with: he cleans meticulously every slash and scratch, bandages the scrapes and readies his sewing kit for the worst ones: he’s gotten good at stitching people, and how fucked up is it? He looks down ad the huge wound on Geralt’s leg and stalls. He knows he should have tackled that first, it’s the most dangerous one.  
He just don’t know how. And there’s a healer coming. So he better do what he can.  
“I will start with the stitches now” He warns, exhaling and cleaning the needle “You won’t feel a thing, love. Ok?”  
Geralt nods again, eyes still closed, and flinches as the needle enters his skin. His hand on the linens never wavers, though, so Jaskier sighs and goes on until a row of small, ordinate stitches are applied on his already scarred chest.  
“All done, love” Jaskier kisses his brow “All done. You did so good”.  
Geralt doesn’t even growl at Jaskier’s tone, ant it scares the bard even more. And that fucking wound just won’t stop bleeding. Jaskier touches Geralt’s hand and pries it away from the wet fabric, kissing his knuckles and keeping the pressure. He says “It’s open” to anyone just knocked and Filip is there again, accompanying an old woman with a huge bag of stuff.   
Herbs. Potions. Whatever.  
She clucks her tongue and nods to the bard, starting to work almost immediately on staunching the bleeding and mashing stuff to create a greenish poultice to apply to the hole in Geralt’s leg.  
And it must hurt like fuck, because Geralt screams and witchers’ antics be damned, and Jaskier has to pin him down to the bed because he’s bucking like a crazed horse, and could easily throw the old healer against the wall or hurt her anyway.  
And there are tears falling from his clenched eyes into his hair, and from Jaskier’s eyes on Geralt’s cheeks.  
And then it all ends, because Geralt finally passes out and goes limp, and it’s the final straw for Jaskier: he starts sobbing then and there, tension and fear choking him, and the old woman looks at him, plucks something from her pocket and gives him some herb to munch on, to calm down.  
A bland version of valerian, he understands as he feels his nerves stop buzzing and thanks her.  
She leaves as she came, silently and with Filip helping her to gather her things, poking his head inside and taking in the two prone figures on the bed.  
“How is he?” He asks, wringing his hands. Jaskier clears his throat and dries his eyes.  
“He’ll be better soon” He answers, voice still wet “Just...it was painful”.  
Filip nods and looks at Geralt’s leg, now clean and wrapped in a white bandage.  
“Tell him we’re grateful, when he wakes” He says, then helps the healer with her bag and stops right outside the door, waiting for her.  
“My name is Helga” She explains, opening her mouth for the first time and putting some small bags on the table in the corner of the room “These are for pain and to fight the infection. Every for hours, with warm water”.  
She nods again and she’s gone, just like that, and Jaskier is left with a very naked, very wounded and very bloody witcher. He looks at Geralt and is tempted to smile like he does every time he manages to see him asleep, but he doesn’t: he’s not sleeping, he’s passed out from pain and fever, and he looks cold.  
So, Jaskier warms a couple of buckets keeping them close to the earth, all the while caressing Geralt’s hair every time the witcher moves, and goes to work to clean him up: it’s long, and he’s oh so tired when he’s done, but Geralt looks much better without all the blood and dirt on his skin and, once Jaskier has piled on him every blanket and fur he can put his hands on, much more comfortable.  
Still, he hasn’t regained consciousness, and it’s a tad bit worrying. He can’t do anything more than wait, anyway.  
-  
He doesn’t sleep, not really, so he’s not surprised to see the light of down stream inside their room from the small window in front of the bed. Geralt is still unconscious, but it looks more like a restoring sleep than a total black out. Jaskier managed to make him swallow the potions he healer left them, and it looks like they’re doing their job. He keeps on watching over the witcher for what feels like hours until Geralt’s eyelids flutter open and there he is. Jaskier looks at him and starts crying.  
Oh, that’s so embarrassing.  
Geralt raises one eyebrow and one hand, and Jaskier is quick to get on the bed and cradle his head with all the care in the world. He can’t stop sobbing, though, and it’s starting to make him feel weird.   
“What” And Geralt has to stop, because his voice cracks and he starts coughing. Jaskier jumps up and gets him some water. Exhales. And keeps on crying.  
“What happened?” The witcher asks, trembling hand cradling the bard’s face, and Jaskier nuzzles his palm, looks up to stop the tears and clears his throat.  
“The kikimore you were hunting ate a chunk of your leg”.  
It’s so ridiculous, put like that, that he starts giggling. And then he breaks down and is sobbing again, fear and grief flowing from him in waves. Geralt gathers him against his good side and keeps him there, looking at the ceiling.  
“I’m fine” He rasps, and Jaskier shakes his head, sniffling.  
“Don’t say that” He mutters “You always say that, and it’s never true”.  
Geralt keeps silent for so long that Jaskier pulls up his head and looks at him, blue eyes shiny and red. The witcher looks pensive.  
“You’re not fine, can’t always be fine” Jaskier says, gaze fixed in his yellow eyes “And you know what? That’s fine. You don’t have to be always strong, and...and...”  
He’s rambling. Oh Melitele, he’s rambling. And Geralt is looking at him with his weird, blank expression. The bard wets his lips and sighs.  
“Yesterday...you might have...Fuck, Geralt. I thought...”  
“I wasn’t going to die. It just hurt.”  
“And you think it makes me feel better?” Jaskier sits up, screaming, and then bites his lip.  
“You always seem indestructible. Invincible. But you’re just...you’re precious. To me. Just...please. Be careful” He concludes, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.  
Geralt opens his mouth but nothing comes out. It’s so difficult to have someone care for him like that. Complicated. Weird. New and beautiful. So in the end he just nods, with a huge knot in his throat that won’t seem to move.  
“Alright” He croaks, and Jaskier opens his eyes.  
“Really?”  
Geralt huffs out a laugh.  
“I’ll try”  
“Asshole”  
“Always so sweet”  
“You!” Jaskier gasps, eyes wide, then exhales and sits down closer to the witcher, shaking his head. It looks like he’s going to say something, but Geralt is quicker for once.  
“Thank you” He rasps, golden eyes still hazy with fever, and Jaskier smiles.  
“Anytime, you huge idiot”.


	17. Like the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He toes his black boots off, along with the socks, and feels the cold sand under his soles. It feels...nice. He dares to wiggle his toes and feels the sand move between them. Yes, he decides: he likes it.

I wanna hold your body  
Like the sea holds the tide  
Super elastic bubble plastic - Like the sea

It takes a while but, in the end, Jaskier actually manages to drag Geralt to the coast: they travel for a couple of days heading south and, at the second day’s sunset, a glittering line appears on the horizon, constantly moving and so, so bright in the dying red sun. Jaskier gasps and grabs Geralt by the arm.  
“Geralt, the sea! That’s the sea!”  
The witcher keeps silent, eyes lost so far away and full of badly repressed wonder. And Jaskier understands that yes, Geralt might have seen the sea before, but never allowed himself to really feel it. To watch wave upon wave crash on the shore until your brain is lulled in a painless, dreamy haze. To smell the salt on his skin and taste it on his tongue, hair whipping around his face in the breeze.  
Well, this just won’t do.  
“Beautiful, hm?”   
He asks, smiling, and Geralt clears his throat and nods, humming. Jaskier looks at him, and his witcher seems to be still captivated by that small, iridescent strip of ever changing light.  
“I’ve never...”Geralt starts, wetting his lips, and his eyes don’t move from the horizon “I’ve never thought about the sea like a place to enjoy. Just like another aquatic monster’s habitat. I mean, I’ve never...”  
So many words. Impressive.  
“It’s ok” Jaskier smiles “I’ll show you”  
Geralt looks at him, a ghost of a smile on his lips.  
“Should I be worried?”  
“Oh” Laughs Jaskier “Very much so!”  
-  
It’s evening when they get there, and it’s so dark that the sea is practically invisible. But they can hear it, hear the sound of the backwash on the shore, and Jaskier knows that they’re close to a sandy beach and not to a rocky one thanks to that sound alone.  
“You know what” He mumbles with a smile that would be invisible in the night if not for his pearly teeth “This is actually the perfect moment for a swim”.  
Geralt freezes.  
What the ever loving fuck, really. It’s night, a moonless night at that, dark as a dragon butt hole. He can barely see a thing, left alone keep them both safe from the stuff that goes bumping around after sunset, and Jaskier wants to go in those black waters now?  
“It’s dangerous” He growls, and Jaskier sighs.   
He knows what Geralt is thinking about and knows that, to a certain extent, he’s perfectly right. It’s a dangerous world, and Geralt is one of humanity’s bastions against it. He knows what’s on his mind, it’s been drilled into his brain since he was a child.  
Protect. At all costs.  
But Jaskier just wants him to relax, even if for a little while. Hell, even fifteen minutes would be fine, at that point: Geralt is always tense, his shoulders set and jaw squared and fuck, Jaskier’s muscles ache just thinking about it. And he knows that this is Geralt’s normal, his default setting, so he doesn’t push but nods and raises: “Well, let’s just dip our toes in the water then. Is it ok?”  
Geralt thinks about it, but then has to begrudgingly nod and follow a smiling Jaskier to the beach, tying up Roach’s reins to a post close to what smells like a green patch of grass. His first step on the beach makes him stop: he has ran on beaches, sword unleashed and ready to cut down some sea monster, but actually just...walked on them? Felt the sand give under his weight? That’s a first, and it feels weird.  
“You should take those off” The bard’s voice comes from his left, one slender finger pointing to his boots: Jaskier has already removed his, and is keeping them both safe from sand and water in his right hand. Geralt looks at him and ponders.  
He can run fast enough without them anyway, so he might as well remove them. He toes his black boots off, along with the socks, and feels the cold sand under his soles. It feels...nice. He dares to wiggle his toes and feels the sand move between them. Yes, he decides: he likes it.  
“So, are you coming?”  
Jaskier grabs his hand, and he’s so engrossed by the sand that he flinches. Jaskier lets his hand go.  
“Sorry” He hears “It’s just me, love”  
Geralt swallows, looking down at the dark beach.  
“No, it’s ok. I was just...”  
He shrugs without finishing what he was saying, and Jaskier feels his shoulders move and smiles. His witcher was distracted, maybe? So his plan “get Geralt to the sea and let him relax for a while” is working already. Good to know. He takes his hand again and guides him to the shore until they can feel the water wet their feet: Geralt braces for the cold impact, but the water is actually...warm?  
He gasps, and Jaskier laughs.  
“Oh, come on. It’s not that cold”  
“No it’s...” Geralt shakes his head “It’s warm”  
“Well, yes” Jaskier’s voice sounds confused “You must have felt it when you fought against whatever lives in there, right?”  
Has he? He doesn’t think so. So he shakes his head again.  
“I’ve always worn my armour, and didn’t really have the time to think about it”.  
“What?”  
Geralt can’t really see him, but he sounds so bewildered it makes him feel embarrassed. So he just growls something and shoves him, making him laugh.   
“It’s the sun” The bard explains, still giggling “It warms up the water during the day, and the water releases the warmth during the night”.  
Geralt would like to know more about this phenomenon, but Jaskier is humming happily beside him, and he doesn’t want to interrupt him. He could list at least ten or twelve creatures that could eat their toes right now, but doesn’t for the same reason.   
It feels peaceful there, in the dark, with Jaskier’s singing voice and the sea white noise surrounding him. And it’s so rare that he loathes to break the spell that seems to have been cast on that remote beach, but Jaskier does it for him.  
“Wanna sleep here?” He asks “There are no taverns around for miles, looks like”.  
Well, that sounds risky. The beach is exposed, and…  
“Geralt” Jaskier’s voice distracts him “It’s no different than sleeping in the woods. It will be alright. Just different”.  
Right.  
No, not really, because in the woods they can choose an adequate enough clearing, with something to cover their backs, and here everything is so open and…  
Geralt sighs, pinching his nose, then nods again and the bard emits a small, joyful sound from the back of his throat, so small he could have missed it if not for his witcher’s senses, and he’s glad he didn’t.  
He loves it, when Jaskier is happy and excited about something.  
Honestly? The truth is that Jaskier doesn’t want to miss a single second of Geralt’s first, real encounter with the sea: he wants to see his eyes reflect the waves, get lost in their coming and going, see the sun on his skin. He wants all this and more, and won’t miss it for the world.  
So, in order not to, he wakes up before down and yawns, builds a small fire, prepares their breakfast and watches, sitting on his bedroll, as Geralt opens his eyes, stretches and looks around astonished at being the second to awake. It’s pretty unusual, Jaskier has to admit, but the sleepy face of the witcher and his bed hair are totally worth the effort.  
“Morning, sleepyhead” He smiles.  
Geralt looks around and there: that’s what he was waiting for. Geralt’s eyes meet the sea and he’s immediately captivated, lips parted and hair in disarray: the sunrise paints his silver mane in a soft shade of pink, and it’s the cutest and more out of contest thing Jaskier has ever seen.  
It’s adorable, but that’s beside the point.  
The point is that Geralt is in love with the sea, and Jaskier is even more in love with him because it’s so beautiful to see him like that.  
Happy.  
He says nothing, just takes it all in, committing everything to his memory: the sun kissing his skin, painting it gold, the wind in his hair and his eyes that, in the light of the morning sun, look even more clear than usual. Geralt takes a big breath and the smell of the sea hits him in full force: he keeps it in and exhales, slowly.  
Jaskier is looking at him as if he were a painting, for fuck’s sake.  
“So” The bard tries again “What about a swim before breakfast?”  
Geralt tilts his head, wets his lips and smiles.


	18. The Doomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re free, now” He said, nodding “You can leave”.  
> And he didn’t understand, couldn’t understand until the chief took a step closer to Geralt and he saw that the witcher was loathe to react.

Behold a new Christ  
Behold the same old horde  
Gather at the altering  
New beginning, new word  
And the word was death  
And the word was without light  
The new beatitude  
"Good luck, you're on your own"

A perfect circle - The Doomed

Jaskier’s hands aren’t much more soft then Geralt’s really: his calluses are just in different places. Do you have any idea of how much the strings hurt your fingers when you start to play an instrument? It takes time to build the right resistance (meaning, calluses on the tips of your fingers) and in the meantime it hurts, you bleed and eve the idea of touching a string again feels foolish. It takes stubbornness and dedication to become a good musician and, luckily for him, Jaskier has them both.  
Coincidentally, stubbornness and dedication are what it takes to live with Geralt, too: the man can be even more stubborn than him, but Jaskier is nothing but persistent. He managed to forge a friendship with one of the most elusive and reserved creature in the whole Continent, and he cherishes it with everything he has: they fight and argue, sure, but Jaskier knows that they will stick together anyway.  
Because they need each other.  
Geralt keeps him safe, from people and monsters alike, and Jaskier takes care of him and turns into an overprotective fury every time someone disrespect his witcher: what was a pure business relationship evolved in a deep bond that they both cultivate in their own, different way.  
Geralt finds them food, and is always careful to give the bard the better morsels, makes sure he can sleep as close to the fire as permitted in winter and in the cooler spot in the summer, saves his life again and again and constantly puts his own life on the line to keep Jaskier safe.  
People call him a beast, sometimes. A monster. A mutant. An abomination.  
All Jaskier wishes, for those people, is a painful destiny.  
And then, it happens.  
The headed south, following a lead on a contract Geralt heard about, and the village they found was quite pretty: small houses, the smell of the sea wafting through clean streets. All in all, one of the tidiest places the bard had ever seen. But even places like those have their problems, and the problem seems to be an alghoul that kept himself hidden not too far from the small community it used as living stock. An alghoul was an ugly thing, stinky and hideous, but not that hard to take down all in all.  
The tale sounded strange to the witcher, anyway: the man that recounted it was both the village chief and the head of the cult that all the population followed, and this alone was a big, red flag in Geralt’s head. So much power condensed in just one person couldn’t be right.  
But it wasn’t his problem: he was there for the alghoul and the alghoul only.  
And the whole thing was unbelievably absurd, again: the thing was elusive at best, said the man, and practically invisible at worst. And it was strange for such a usually dull creature. It stole the corpses from the town’s little cemetery, didn’t hunt for fresh meat. And this was even stranger since alghoul used to kill their prey and consume it later. So yes, something was wrong. And shady as fuck. But the coins were real enough and the innkeeper had given them one of his best rooms so he’d decided to stay and try to understand what this creature really was.  
Yes, it sounds stupid now, right?  
He prepared everything under Jaskier’s watchful eyes, trying to be ready for everything that thing could be, and left with his bard to reach the spot of the last sighting of the beast because there was just no way that Jaskier would sit back and wait for Geralt to return that time. He was too curious for his own good, but that was the story of his whole life so why fight it now?  
They waited in a small clearing close to the cemetery, but nothing happened for a long while. Geralt was starting to think that they should head back and try again the following night.  
And then there were torches all around him, and him alone: the townspeople seemed to be appeared from the night itself, surely they had been waiting for hours hidden in the dark, and no one seemed to care about Jaskier: all the eyes were on the witcher. The bard got pushed backwards until he was outside the circle of people that had been surrounding them both ad a man looked at him with a smile.  
“You’re free, now” He said, nodding “You can leave”.  
And he didn’t understand, couldn’t understand until the chief took a step closer to Geralt and he saw that the witcher was loathe to react.  
And it was stupid, really. He could have killed them all in seconds. But he knew that the word “butcher” was still spinning in his witcher’s head and it slowed him. It was an absurd thing to think about, a thought that can slow you down enough for a simple man to bring down a witcher, right?  
The chief got in Geralt’s face and a man behind him hit him on the side of his head with the blunt side of an axe. The witcher’s eyes widened for a second before going down on one knee, and the chief nodded as another man tied an already prepared noose around the witcher’s hands. The chief kneeled in front of Geralt and pulled his head back fisting his white hair.  
“Your race is an abomination in the eyes of the gods” He hissed, pulling his head back even more and exposing his throat, and Geralt’s eyes were on him, but still clouded by the blow his head has suffered “And keeping the world clean is our job, witcher. That’s why we spread the word of that alghoul”  
Jaskier saw Geralt smirk and felt his blood run cold. He could never keep his mouth shut.  
“You should have gotten better informations” Rasped the witcher, slitted yellow eyes full of pain but voice sure “What you told me was a bunch of horse shit”.  
It earned him a new blow to the head, blood starting to flow from his hairline, and Jaskier had a plan in his mind by then.  
The chief stood up again, the rope that kept Geralt’s hands tied firmly in his hands like some sick kind of lash, and the witcher was still so dazed that he didn’t move: he fell when the man pulled.  
Jaskier stole a dagger from the man that smiled to him, engrossed in the beastly show his chief was giving them.  
The chief pulled again, and Geralt didn’t move, lying still on the ground.  
Jaskier advanced in the crowd, hidden by the darkness.  
The chief kicked Geralt’s ribs.  
And Jaskier sank the dagger in the man’s shoulder.  
The chief screamed, letting go of Geralt and the rope, but Jaskier was quick to step between him and his witcher, pushing the chief backwards into the crowd and recovering the stolen dagger with a wet, nauseating sound.  
The man screamed again, blood flowing freely from the wound now that the blade was out, but the crowd didn’t show any sign of dissolving. They stood there screaming at them, but no one dared to move.  
“You should go back if you want your chief to live” Snarled Jaskier “Looks like he’s bleeding like a pig”.  
“You ungrateful brat” The chief spat at his feet, blood running through his fingers “We tried to save you from that beast!”  
“I need no saving, and he is no beast” He replied with a smile made of teeth “The only monsters I see are all around us”  
The crowd gasped, and Jaskier prepared himself for them all to attack at once. But they didn’t. They fell silent, looking behind him, because Geralt was getting on his feet. And he was scary as fuck.  
Oh, he was a sight to behold: half of his face and hair covered in blood, eyes feral, teeth bared. He unsheathed his iron sword in a slow, calculated movement and pointed it at the chief’s throat all the while pulling Jaskier behind him.  
“Leave” He growled, but the man shook his head.  
“You’re a monster. We have to cleanse our land from the filth you carry around”  
Jaskier turned, covering the witcher’s back and trying to keep the crowd a bay, and felt Geralt move his right leg back, ready to strike. But the assailant came from behind.  
“Geralt!” He screamed, and the witcher didn’t even turn around, switching the grip on his sword’s handle and impaling the man that was attacking him in a swift move. When the witcher withdrew the blade the blood splattered a red arch on the peoples faces.  
“Leave” Geralt growled again, and this time everyone ran. He waited for everyone to be gone.  
Then fell.  
“Geralt! Shit!”  
Jaskier let the dagger fall to the ground and ran to his witcher, kneeling and helping him to keep his head up: he was still bleeding, and his eyes found Jaskier with difficulty.  
“Geralt, come on” He tried again, cradling his head on his lap “You have to stay awake. Geralt, fuck, stay awake or I’ll write a song about your ass that no one will ever forget!”  
Geralt hummed and smirked but kept his eyes open, head kept up by Jaskier’s hands only. And it was so not good.  
“Geralt, can you walk?” Just a few steps, I’ll help you get on Roach and we’ll find somewhere safe to rest. Can you do that for me?”  
Geralt hummed again and groaned when Jaskier pulled him up: how did he manage to kill that man and scare everyone enough to scatter them all was beyond Jaskier, but his witcher was nothing but resourceful. Jaskier managed to drag him where Roach was waiting: the mare crouched and Geralt mounted with Jaskier walking beside him, careful to keep him on the saddle. After a couple of minutes Geralt exhaled and lied down on Roach’s neck, groaning and squeezing his eyes.  
“No sleeping, I said” Jaskier patted his leg, and Geralt whined.  
“You look pissed” He croaked, swallowing back his rising nausea, and Jaskier suppressed a laugh.  
“I’m not pissed, Geralt. I’m fucking furious” He deadpanned, rage clenching his stomach as he steered Roach “You wanted to help them and they tried to kill you. And I still can’t understand why, beside their fucked up religion or something like that” He exhaled, jaw working “I want them dead. Them all. Dead”.  
Geralt coughed.  
“At least I helped with one” He rambled against his mare’s neck, and Jaskier smiled.  
“That you did, love”.


	19. Keep the streets empty for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s why he sighs, slams his hand on the table and gets out, resigned to the cold, damp, chilly night.  
> And, surprise: Roach is right there, on her own.  
> What the everloving fuck.

There is room in my lap  
For bruises, asses, handclaps  
I will never disappear  
For forever, I'll be here

Fever Ray - Keep the streets empty for me

It’s getting late. Jaskier knows that hunts have no schedule, and that Geralt could be gone for a while, but he told him that his particular hunt would be quick and he’s been gone for the whole night. He left him behind because Jaskier choose not to follow, thank you very much: it’s cold, and foggy, and it’s raining and he was making good coin with his music in one of the best inns in town, and their pockets are actually pretty empty, so he decided to keep on doing his job.  
They need all the coin they can make, and if it means splitting up for one evening and an easy hunt well, so be it.   
The inn is warm, people look happy enough to have him there and Geralt promised he’d be back soon. Well, he promised he’d be back soon fucking ages ago, so Jaskier is starting to think that something could have gone a bit wrong.  
Should have been an easy hunt. He promised. But the anxiety that Jaskier feels growing in the pit of his stomach isn’t helping him at all. He knows that Geralt’s job is dangerous: shit, the man kills monsters for a living, and how fucked up is that. Someone has to do it, sure, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.  
Jaskier sighs, looking outside the clouded up window and trying to discern the shapes of the people that dare to venture outside in that shitty weather, hoping to see the bulky figure of the witcher sooner or later. Sooner, hopefully. And Jaskier isn’t really patient, in general. He isn’t the kind of guy that sits back and waits for things to happen. Shit, things will never happen if you don’t make them.   
That’s why he sighs, slams his hand on the table and gets out, resigned to the cold, damp, chilly night.  
And, surprise: Roach is right there, on her own.  
What the everloving fuck.  
Jaskier walks towards the mare, and skips a beat because there is a dark figure slumped against the horse’s legs. He jumps backwards before realizing that the slumped, dark shape is Geralt himself.  
He must have fallen from Roach, and who the fuck knows for how long he’s been there in the cold, under the rain.  
“Geralt, what...” He chokes out crouching down and touching the witcher’s cheek: Geralt is so cold that his skin feels frozen, eyes closed and blood caked on his right temple, and Jaskier knows that blacking out with a head wound is a huge no-no. Rousing him up has to be the first step.  
“Geralt” He calls gently, skidding two fingers on his cheekbone “Geralt, wake up”.  
Geralt doesn’t move and Jaskier exhales a white puff of breath that gets lost in the fog. The idea of carrying Geralt inside isn’t appealing, but there’s no one to ask for help in the common room, so Jaskier slots his arm under Geralt’s armpit and puts his strength in his legs, hoisting him up. He even manages to convince Roach to follow them and enter the stables as he stumbles under the witcher’s weight, and is lucky enough to find the innkeeper right on the door.   
The good man helps him to carry Geralt to their room and fills a tub with scalding water in no time, just as Jaskier finishes taking Geralt’s clothes off. He has to get him warm, and hopes that the change in temperature will wake him up. He knows that he should take it slow with the temperature, and that hypothermia is a dangerous thing to play with, he could seriously hurt a human acting like that.   
But we’re talking about a witcher, and this is happened already, so yeah. He knows what he’s doing. And witchers are prone to get frozen with their slower heartbeat, anyway.  
Anyway.  
“Geralt?” He tries again, patting the witcher’s cold cheek, but Geralt’s eyes don’t even flutter and fuck, it’s just like touching eyes “Geralt, please”.  
Nothing.  
Jaskier sighs. Alight, then.  
He hooks his arms under Geralt’s armpits and drags him to the bath tub, sitting him inside the water keeping one arm looped around his shoulder and using his free hand to push his legs inside too. Geralt’s head lolls on his arm, hairs still matted with blood, and Jaskier just looks at him still cradling his head, still scared to death by his stillness.  
And then Geralt coughs, a wet and rattling sound, and two golden slits become visible under his eyelids. And Jaskier starts breathing again.  
“Geralt?” He exhales, not daring to move his gaze from Geralt’s eyes “Geralt, can you hear me?”   
Geralt doesn’t move his head from the cradle formed by Jaskier’s arm, swallows and wets his lips.   
“Jas...kier?”  
“Fuck” Jaskier lets his head fall, forehead touching Geralt’s still too cold skin “Fuck, Geralt. Don’t ever do this to me again. Ever”.  
Geralt coughs again.  
“I will try”  
Jaskier huffs and inhales, warmth and the scent of blood entering his nose. He would stay like that for hours, cradling Geralt’s head and breathing him in, but he knows that he still has the wound to take care of, and has still to check his eyes to know how serious the situation is. So he smiles and lifts his head.  
“Can you look at me?” He asks, caressing the witcher’s brow “Just a few seconds, I need to know how’s that head of yours”.  
Geralt hums and does as asked, a pained grimace contorting his features as the light enters his eyes. But his pupils aren’t blown, and look exactly the same even if his right iris is swimming in bright red blood.   
Some broken vessels, then, but no concussion. Jaskier kisses Geralt’s forehead, thanking every god he can think about.  
“You’ll be fine” He whispers against the skin of Geralt’s neck “I’ll clean you up and let you soak the warmth, and you’ll be fine”.   
Geralt hums again, turning his head to hide his face in Jaskier’s chest, and the bard feels his chest swell with tenderness.  
Seriously, that man. Adorable. Well, since they’re there.  
“Don’t move, love” He says, kissing Geralt’s nose and fishing a clean rag from his backpack with his free hand, starting to clean his temple. The cut is small, but bleeds a lot. He’ll have to stitch it up, he considers with a grimace.  
“I have to put in some stitches” He explains, petting Geralt’s hair “Just a couple of stitches, you’re bleeding a lot”.  
Geralt just nods, letting Jaskier rest him against the tub’s rim and gathering his sewing kit.  
A bard with a sewing kit. Jaskier always carries with him everything he might need to patch him up, and it makes Geralt’s eyes prickle with tears. He’s moved, really. Having someone that cares so much is new, weird and so, so beautiful. He’s so lost in his thoughts, eyes closed and body lax in the warm water, that he flinched when Jaskier crouched behind him, touching his hair.   
“It’s me” He hears, and hums. Then Jaskier is moving his hair away from the wound and cleaning it up and, even if he’s had much worse, it hurts nonetheless.  
“It’s ok” soothes Jaskier, kissing his hair “Just a couple of stitches, love. Can you stay still for me?”  
Of course he can. He already feels ashamed for letting himself get caught in such a show of vulnerability, even if he knows that Jaskier would never make fun of him for that. He’s safe with him. He really is.  
Jaskier does a quick job with the wound, spreads a soothing salve and Geralt exhales when he feels the bard’s lips on his skin.  
“All done” Says the bard patting his cheek “Let me just wash your hair, what do you think?”  
What does he think? He loves when Jaskier takes care of him like that, adores his hands in his hair. He nods, feeling the skin pull around the stitches, and Jaskier guides him backwards until his hair get under the water, the bard’s hands the only thing stopping his face from getting submerged. The bard pulls him up again, cradles his head against his chest and cleans dirt and blood from his white hair, all the while humming some sweet tune he has never heard before. Jaskier’s fingers are careful around the wound, nails scratching tenderly at his scalp every now and then. And he feels like purring, for fuck’s sake.  
Jaskier lathers his hair with lavender scented oils and care and washes them again.  
“Can you stand up, love?”  
The bard asks then, and helps Geralt up from the tub with one arm around his waist, careful not to let him slip. He pats him dry with a towel and sits him on the bed, moving the covers and letting him lie down. He covers him up immediately, keeping him warm, and takes a couple of minutes to look at him. Just look at him.  
Shit, Geralt is gorgeous. And alive. And warm. And if he wants him to really stay warm he still has something to do.  
Jaskier sheds his clothes, sparing a look at the bloody shirt and wet trousers, and gets under the covers gathering Geralt in his arms and letting him rest against his chest. The witcher is bigger, and heavier, but it will have to do.  
Geralt hums contentedly, and Jaskier smiles down at him. He can’t fight like the witcher, but caring for him? Fuck, that he can do egregiously.


	20. As the silence becomes me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This guy in particular was a real pain in the ass: young enough to be fresh out of some academy, yet so stuck-up and foolish enough to request that the wyvern the witcher had been paid to kill by the villagers should be brought alive to him for his experiments.   
> Have you ever seen a wyvern? Do you have any idea what such a creature can do? Geralt never escaped one of those things scratches free, bringing back a living one was such a stupid idea. He had laughed, told him to fuck off because he wasn’t the one that was paying and left with Jaskier in tow and the mage’s face oh, Jaskier thought, was worth one of his songs.  
> He should have known it would come back to bite him in the ass. Fucking mages.

Illusions that I create  
The revenants I fabricated on  
Well I can't remember when  
Was it true, was it then  
You were caught

As the silence becomes me - Tremonti

Geralt had his own ranking of people that pissed him off: bigot villagers were pretty high up there, nobles too, but self absorbed mages? Fuck, those had the first place. Not only they were unbearably self conceited: they were dangerous, and so sure to detain the universal truth they made his head hurt and his teeth grind so hard they creaked.   
This guy in particular was a real pain in the ass: young enough to be fresh out of some academy, yet so stuck-up and foolish enough to request that the wyvern the witcher had been paid to kill by the villagers should be brought alive to him for his experiments.   
Have you ever seen a wyvern? Do you have any idea what such a creature can do? Geralt never escaped one of those things scratches free, bringing back a living one was such a stupid idea. He had laughed, told him to fuck off because he wasn’t the one that was paying and left with Jaskier in tow and the mage’s face oh, Jaskier thought, was worth one of his songs.  
He should have known it would come back to bite him in the ass. Fucking mages.   
“I thought I told you I wanted it alive”  
The mage sat at their table, an annoyed expression on his beard free face, and didn’t even spare a look at Jaskier. The bard clamped one hand on Geralt’s tight so hard that the witcher hissed.  
“And I thought I told you to fuck off” Geralt answered without missing a beat and ow, Jaskier’s hand squeezed his leg again. The mage arched an irritatingly perfect eyebrow and smiled, and it sent chills down Jaskier’s spine. That was the smile of a reptile, of someone that will wait for ages if it meant he’ll finally be able to hurt you.  
“See, this?” The mage muttered shaking his head “This is exactly why I don’t like you witchers. Always so disrespectful. Good thing I spoke with the host before, then”.  
Jaskier felt Geralt tense, and tendrils of ice made their way through his veins.  
“The fuck you mean?” He hissed, his hand shaking on Geralt’s tight, and the mage turned his head in his direction for the first time. And smiled again.  
“He has to learn, bard” He explained with a gracious tilt of his head “So I paid that good man to put something fun, and absolutely undetectable even for a witcher, in his ale”.  
Geralt felt his stomach clench, but Jaskier had his hand around the mage’s throat before he could stop him.  
“The fuck” He growled “You mean, mage?” and Geralt had to literally rip him from the guy’s face because he didn’t want him to get hurt, too. Himself he didn’t really care about, but he would have had to kill the mage should he even try to hurt his bard.   
The man didn’t even react, merely dusting his vest, and sat down again with a sigh.  
“I should curse you too, bard” He deadpanned with an evil glimpse in his eyes “But I think that forcing you to watch as the witcher suffers will be much better. At least for a few hours. Let’s say the whole night, shall we? And then it will be over. You see” He concluded with a wink that made Jaskier’s blood turn cold “I’m not that heartless”.  
He made to leave, but Jaskier leaned over and clawed at his sleeve.  
“I curse you” He hissed, looking at him dead in the eyes “Everyone will know what you did. Everyone will sing about your cowardice. Everyone will know your name and speak it with contempt. I curse you, mage, with everything I’ve got”.  
And then he was forced to let go, because Geralt coughed, looked at him with panic filled eyes and fell, hitting his head against the table.  
-  
Jaskier had to admit that, for once, the villagers had been more than helpful: two young men had helped him carry Geralt to the inn across the road, because they weren’t going to spend the night in the place where he got drugged, thank you very much. The tavern they had been ambushed in now was empty and silent, the villagers punishing its keeper for betraying the witcher that had saved them all, opting to drink somewhere else.  
Jaskier appreciated the gesture, a lot, but he wanted the innkeeper and the mage to pay even more: he wanted them to pay for hurting Geralt, for thinking they they could use him like some beast of burden. For his scared eyes when he felt whatever he had been dosed with start to affect him. For the wound on his cheekbone, the one he got when he hit that fucking table.   
He wanted them both to pay and suffer, and they would: he would sing about them, make sure everyone knew what had happened, make sure the innkeeper had no clients for ages, and that no one would hire that damned mage anymore: such was his fury and the power of his words. But his revenge would have to wait, because he had Geralt to care for.  
Geralt, that had practically forced Jaskier to tie his hands to the headpost because he didn’t know what was going to happen, and didn’t want to risk hurting his bard. Geralt, that was lying unconscious in bed with a fever so high it made Jaskier feel like crying, whose body was wrecked by shivers so violent they made his teeth chatter, and when Jaskier had had to force him to drink some water he couldn’t even recognize him, and was scared of being touched.   
It happened right when Jaskier was trying to make him drink again: Geralt opened his eyes wide, looked around and wet his lips, and Jaskier wanted so hard to free him from the restraints that kept him tied to the bed because he wasn’t getting violent.  
He was getting scared, so scared and desperate.  
Geralt tired to move his wrists and, when the ropes wouldn’t give, went limp again. Jaskier tried to make him drink some more water since he looked a bit more coherent, but Geralt shut his eyes, shook his head and pleaded.  
“Please, no more”.  
Jaskier stood there, waterskin in his hands.  
“Geralt, you have to drink” He reasoned, caressing his cheekbones with the back of his hand “Your fever is too high”.  
But Geralt wasn’t listening: he opened his eyes, bit his bottom lip and looked to the side, a desperate frown on his face.  
“Please, Vesemir. Please. It hurts too much”.  
Jaskier froze, eyes huge. Vesemir was Geralt’s father figure, the man that had raised and trained him. What was Geralt talking about? He caressed his damp, white hair whispering reassurances all the while, but Geralt was too far gone to listen.  
“Why me, Vesemir?” He chocked out “Why do I have to be the one with potential? I don’t want to. I don’t want to. It hurts, Vesemir.”  
Fuck. Oh, fuck.  
Jaskier had to stand up from the bed and take half a dozen of huge breaths to stop himself from crying, shouting or puke everything he had for dinner: Geralt was reliving his trials, his mutations, and it was awful. He covered his mouth with one hand, grasping at the wall for support, and looked back at his witcher.  
He seemed...broken. Resigned. He had had no choice in becoming a witcher, and no choice in being one of the best of Kaer Morhen, his high potential the reason of the grievous trials and mutations he was put through. He let it sink for a minute, then moved back to the bed and looked at Geralt’s tied wrists.  
He wasn’t going to hurt him, he decided cutting the ropes and cradling Geralt’ hands in his, rubbing at his pulse point to help the blood flow and lessen the pins and needles he surely felt, judging by the hiss that escaped his lips.   
“It’s ok” He soothed, feeling the witcher’s pulse under his fingertips “It’s ok, love. You’re alright”.  
Oh no, he fucking wasn’t. Geralt shivered and let his eyes fall shut.   
“Can we please stop?” He rasped “Please?”  
Jaskier felt like crying: oh, if only he cloud make it all stop. But the mage had said that the effects of his potion would last for the whole night, and he didn’t know how to lessen them. Or if they could be lessened at all. He gathered Geralt in his arms and went to sit against the bedpost, letting him rest against his chest, his weight grounding him down.  
“It will pass, love” He whispered against Geralt’s hair “It will pass. Just resist for a little more. For me. Please. Can you do that for me?”  
Geralt’s breath hitched and then he was sobbing, face crushed against Jaskier’s chest and fists clenched hard against the pain. There would be small wounds, the bard knew: small, red, moons in the palms of his witcher’s hands.   
Jaskier rocked him back and forth, one arm around his shaking shoulders and one hand in his hair. He kept vigil until down, when the fever broke and all at one Geralt fell in a restless sleep.   
Then he fished his notebook and his ink and wrote the cruellest song he had ever composed, Geralt still resting against his chest.


	21. Hurt

What have I become?  
My sweetest friend  
Everyone I know  
Goes away in the end

Hurt - Nine inch nails

Geralt doesn’t speak much, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t pay attention. That’s how he knows what’s Jaskier favourite food or kind of ale, which colours he likes the most for his clothes and what’s his perfume of choice.   
And that his bard has a nickname for everyone, or at least an endearment, but for him.  
It hurts, in a way. Just a bit.

It happens every time: he calls children warriors and brave to make them happy. He drops a dear here and there while talking to innkeepers or barmaids and even Roach has her pet name, getting called Beautiful Girl every time Jaskier talks to her.   
He’s not the only one crazy enough to talk to his horse, then.  
Anyway: Jaskier’s got a pet name for everyone but he is, always has been and looks like always will be Geralt. Just Geralt. Jaskier calls him Love when he gets hurt or needs to be comforted (not that he’ll ever admit it), but otherwise you see...he’s Geralt.

And it makes him feel distant and untouchable, as if the bard, maybe without meaning it, still doesn’t feel confident enough to call him something else, to make him his in that way, too.  
He fears Jaskier is still scared of him. He feels kept at arm length by the only person he trusts more than himself because, admittedly, he sucks at taking decisions sometimes.   
And he can understand it: he’s capable of scaring people without even trying so maybe, just maybe, Jaskier is merely reacting accordingly to what Yennefer once called his “scary, predatory aura”. He just hoped that, for once, it wouldn’t happen. Well, looks like he was wrong, but he won’t think too much about it. Right?

No, fuck. Wrong.

He’s obsessing about it. He can’t stop thinking about how to make himself less scary, just a bit, just what it’s needed to stop scaring his bard. But shit, it’s so hard: he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what to do and, more often than not, he’ll do something that’ll weird the bard out, making Jaskier look at him as if he’s lost his mind. He tries to be gentler, less harsh, to speak more, but he knows he looks like an idiot because he has no idea of what he’s doing. He even tries to look less imposing, wearing less armoured pieces and letting his forearms free to see the sunlight. He earns an appreciative glance that turns immediately worried, because Jaskier asks him: “Where the fuck is your armour, Geralt? Is it damaged? What if something attacks us? You’ll get hurt!”  
To say that he’s getting more and more confused is a gentle euphemism. And anyway, Jaskier has called him Geralt. Again.

He doesn’t even know what he’d like to be called, it’s not that: he just wishes he could stop feeling so distant. Aloof. Cold.  
Fucking scary.

Until, one evening it happens again: Jaskier calls a barmaid and thanks her for the ale with a “thank you, dear”, and Geralt must have been too tired to control his mouth, because he slips.  
“Why do you always do that?”  
He asks, and then feels like choking himself because that wasn’t supposed to come out like that. Out loud  
Jaskier makes a strange face and tilts his head.  
“That...what?”   
He inquires, drawing lines on his tankard almost absent-mindedly, Geralt shakes his head, looking to the side.  
“Nothing” He answers, but it’s too late: now Jaskier won’t stop pestering him until he spills it.  
“Nu-hu, mister” And there he goes “That what?”  
Geralt sighs and lets his head fall into his hands, elbows on the table. This is going to be so embarrassing.  
“It’s stupid” He mutters, but Jaskier won’t leave it.   
“It’s obviously not, since it’s bothering you so” He observes crossing his arms across his chest “Geralt, if I did something that hurt you I need to know”.  
“You did it again” He rasps, face still hidden and eyes looking at the table.  
“I did what?”  
Jaskier sounds exasperated. And he has every right to be, he has to give him that. So he exhales, pulls up his head and bites his bottom lip.  
“You called me Geralt”.  
Jaskier tilts his head again, eyes huge.  
“It’s your name. Geralt”.  
“No shit” Mutters the witcher, and passes one hand through his hair in a nervous gesture “I mean that you called the barmaid dear, and I’m still Geralt”.  
There’s silence, then. He doesn’t dare look at Jaskier, so he keeps on looking at his hands on the table.  
“Are you” He hears, and tilts his head up. Jaskier looks crestfallen “Are you jealous? Because you don’t...there’s no need to be”.  
“No, I’m not” He answers, shaking his head “It’s not that. I mean...fuck”.

He can’t do this. How do people manage to talk about feelings without chocking? It feels like he’s drowning, for fuck sake. Then there is one hand caressing his cheek and he opens his eyes to see Jaskier leaning towards him across the table.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, concerned and soft “Talk to me, love”.  
That’s it, then.  
“Do I scare you?” He whispers, terrified. And Jaskier freezes.  
“Why do you ask?” He exhales, hand still on his face. His eyes are so big. So, so blue.  
“Do I?”  
Jaskier shakes his head.  
“No love. You don’t”.  
Geralt bites his lip again, his right knee is jumping up and down, bumps against the table. His stomach feels full of lead.   
“You have a...you call everyone dear, or something else. But me? You call me Geralt. Always”.  
“And you want me to call you something else?”  
“No, I...” The words die in his throat, he wets his lips again. This is so fucking difficult “You seem so open with everyone, call them with...nicknames, and I...”  
Oh, come on!  
“It’s stupid” He repeats, sighing. He gives up. Fuck that. He should have kept his mouth shut in the first place.  
“No, no. It isn’t” Jaskier kisses his knuckles “Tell me”.  
Geralt groans.  
“Do I have to?”  
“Yes, you do”  
“No”  
“Geralt” Jaskier clasps one hand on his arm, and squeezes “Come on. Please”.  
Geralt swallows and forces himself to speak.   
“It feels like you’re scared of me, when you use nicknames for everyone but...” He doesn’t finish but tilts his head, and it’s clear anyway. But Jaskier smiles.

“Oh, love” He says, caressing his cheek “How could I ruin your name when I love it so much? I could never”  
Geralt looks at him, dazed.  
“You what?”  
“I adore you” Jaskier explains with a tenderness he has never felt before “I adore every little thing. I adore your eyes, your hair, your kindness. I adore your name, and I won’t part from it if I can help it”.   
Geralt gapes. Oh Gods, he’s been such and idiot.  
“I’m sorry” He mutters, and Jaskier shakes his head.  
“Don’t be. Now” Jaskier smiles, mischievous and inviting “Why don’t we go upstairs, so I can show you how much I worship you?”


	22. Absoute zero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long story short: he’s been forced to become a witcher and now has to keep being one or his life will have been wasted. He despises the whole thing, but is stuck. And is forced to work for the very same people that loathe him and treat him with contempt and badly repressed fear every time he enters a village.  
> Clear? Good, ‘cause it drives him up the fucking walls.

No pun intended, no punishment  
If I offended you, you needed it  
Stone sour - Absolute zero

Geralt has never felt free: how could he? Born with a destiny, they said. Born in a cage would be a lot more fitting. No right to choose his path, his future. His whole life. No right to feel, because witchers simply don’t feel.  
Well, that’s utter bullshit: he feels. He feels rage, pain, joy, fear. He feels them all, but sometimes doesn’t know how no name them, how to express them, how to keep them in check. He feels ready to explode, sometimes, under the pull of his emotions.  
But, every time, he manages to swallow them down, bottle them up and hide them deep somewhere inside. This impossibility, this complete emotional anomie is hurting him, and he doesn’t even have the means to understand why, and how.

But there is one thing he knows for sure: despite all his spite, his strength, his skills and anger he’s still caged. He has to do what they ask him to, has to do what he was born to do or he won’t get his coin, and his whole life will stop making sense.  
Long story short: he’s been forced to become a witcher and now has to keep being one or his life will have been wasted. He despises the whole thing, but is stuck. And is forced to work for the very same people that loathe him and treat him with contempt and badly repressed fear every time he enters a village.  
Clear? Good, ‘cause it drives him up the fucking walls.

He won’t get his payment if he reacts when people disrespect him, and it’s already happened more than he cares to remember. So he’s ready to punch the table the village chief is sitting behind and leave without coin after punching him too when Jaskier clears his throat and pokes his head from behind his back.  
“You should respect him more, you know?” Jaskier smiles, drumming his fingers on Geralt’s arm “I mean, he saved your village after all”.  
“For a price” The man grumbles and Geralt growls.  
“Of course, I’d have never set foot in your thrice damned village otherwise”.  
And there it is, the familiar rage pushing into his chest from his stomach, the same rage he has to quench every time. Jaskier’s arm snakes around his middle and the bard squeezes his side. The chief, on the other side of his table, looks ready to explode.  
“It’s his job, dear man. Would you work for free?” The bard tries to explain “Of course he’ll do that for a price. And I might add” He continues when he notices the man is ready to interrupt him “That you need and people like him. Witchers. What would you do without them, hm?”

The question is purely rhetoric, but the chief shrugs. And the smile that appears on Jaskier’s lips is so sinister it makes Geralt smile, too.

“You know, rumours fly quickly between witchers. There are signals, runes painted around, hidden into the woods. It would be a pity if, let’s say tomorrow? If tomorrow something were to attack you and no witcher came to your aid. I mean, if you’re not willing to pay for their work why should them?”

The man is silent, stunned, and Geralt doesn’t know if he should laugh at the half lie (‘cause they have signals and runes, sure, but a community? Nope) or just enjoy it, playing along. He opts for the latter and smiles again with just a hint of teeth when the chief gapes, splutters and jumps up from his chair.  
“You wouldn’t dare” He hisses, and Geralt laughs out loud at that.  
“Oh, I totally would. Believe me”  
Jaskier nods, the perfect image of the innocuous, humble bard.  
“It would go against your beliefs”  
The chief tries again, and Jaskier shakes his head, exasperated. Geralt huffs, looking at the ceiling, arms crossed on his chest.  
“I have no beliefs. And the only thing we don’t do is working for free”.

Which: lie, again. He’s done his fair share of good deeds, helping people in need that couldn’t offer him more than a roof for the night and some food.

“What will it be, then” Jaskier asks caressing the case of his lute “Will you pay what you promised or risk your whole village?”  
“Damn you!” The man shrieks, fishing a purse from a drawer and throwing it at the witcher, eyes twitching at the ease with which Geralt catches it “Now get the fuck out of my village!”  
Geralt lets the coins jangle for a couple of seconds, shakes his head and wets his lips. That predatory smile never leaves his face.  
“Nah, I think we’ll stop for a drink first. And maybe, you know. Spend the night? The inn looks comfortable”.

Jaskier is smiling like crazy when they leave.


	23. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just wants to go back. Would have said home if he had one, but witchers don’t need such luxuries: making it back to camp would be enough for him, at that point.

Is there something I can say?  
To bring back what once remained  
Where is all that we let go?  
Where is home?

Alter Bridge - Home

It’s so hot. So, so hot and stifling. The swamp he’s been waddling around for hours feels much bigger than before, when he just got there so, somehow, he must be lost.   
Lost in a fucking swamp full of ghouls he was asked to kill, wounded, in the heat of the summer, with no horse. Because ghouls like to eat them, and he’ll be damned if he’d let something happen to Roach. Jaskier is still at the inn, waiting for him, and he’s glad for that.  
At least he’s safe.  
He feels like he’s walking in circles, has been walking in circles for ages and has wandered too far from where he came from to find those damned creatures, and now he doesn’t know where the fuck he is because the swamp is a fucking labyrinth, and he’s left with little water, the sun is baking is brains and the blood loss is making him nauseous, together with dehydration and the new bump on his head. All in all. it’s a pretty shitty situation.

He just wants to go back. Would have said home if he had one, but witchers don’t need such luxuries: making it back to camp would be enough for him, at that point. 

He coughs and spits out a blob of blood and what looks like a tooth and swears under his breath as the wet mud under his boots gives out, making him fall and twist his ankle. So much for witchers’ unnatural grace. Ha.   
He can still walk on it, has kept on walking on worse injuries, but it hurts like a bitch anyway. And the mud is not helping, the wet soil giving out under his weight every now and then, making him lose his footing and tiring him out more than usual.   
He should be able to make it back, has trained for this for ages, but the heat is getting to him and he needs water even as he’s half submerged is a fucking swamp, the armour and his swords dragging him down as the wounds he suffered battling the ghouls burn like crazy with the sweat that’s getting in them. 

Ugh, gross. Don’t think about it now. Just, keep on walking.

And, in the back of his head, there’s still that thought: I want to go home. I want a home to go back to.   
His left boot gets stuck and he falls on his knees, head down under the sun and skin burning under its assault, mouth parched. And he wants to go home. He’s thirsty, he’s tired, he’s bleeding and he wants a home so desperately. 

He falls, face first in the mud. And doesn’t get up.  
-  
He’s late. Geralt is late, and not “I’ll be there in five” late, he’s “you should have been here hours ago where the fuck are you” late, which is bordering on “if you’re dead I’m going to kill you” late. Jaskier nurses the ale he ordered a good half an hour before, takes a sip and drums his fingers on the table.   
He’s worried, he should be stupid to deny it: he knows that Geralt is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, he can do that better than anyone, but his is a risky job and anything could go wrong in a second. All it takes is a small distraction and he’s fucked. And not in a good way.

Jaskier takes another sip of lukewarm ale, head on his closed fist and elbow on the table, and glances outside: the sun is setting, swarms of mosquitoes fly in big circles looking for someone to drink from and he air is still so hot it feels suffocating. He looks at the dirt road for a while, hoping against hope to see Geralt appear, but it doesn’t happen. So he sighs, leaves some coin on the table and gets out.  
Luckily he knows where his witcher is gone. The general direction, at least. It will have to be enough.  
-  
When Geralt comes to he doesn’t even know where he is at first: his head hurts like a bitch, and he feels worn out. But what hurts the most is his throat: it’s parched, it burns and he can’t even move his lips. It feels dry and scratched, like he’s been eating sand for days, and if he doesn’t find some water and gets out of the sun as soon as possible the situation is going to take a very bad turn.

Geralt groans and pushes himself up on his arms, getting in a kneeling position on the muddy banks of the swamp and has to stop for a minute, breath short and difficult and head spinning. His hair are dirty and caked with dirt and mud, sticking to his forehead, but he lacks the energy to brush them from his eyes. The air around him is still humid but a bit less stifling, and his skin is still on fire.

And he still wants to go home.

It’s a desperate pull, and it’s ridiculous when he thinks about it because he has no home. He could go back to Kaer Morhen, but that’s not what this absurd, nostalgic feeling is about. It’s about music, and blue eyes, and the smell of salt and sea in a crispy morning of some years I the past. It’s a ready smile and nimble fingers and soft, brown hair. 

He wants to go home. Fuck, he wants to go home so much he feels like crying.

He forces himself to stand up on shaky legs and nearly looses his footing again putting to much weight on his bad ankle, but he manages to keep his feet under him and keeps himself upright using his iron sword like a crutch, the other a heavy weight on his back. His wounds are burning, he’s tired, scared, hurt, thirsty and wants to go home.   
His skin feels too tight, and he knows that he suffered a nasty sunburn that will probably turn into a fever in a few hours.  
And then he hears his voice, and doesn’t understand if he’s already hallucinating or if Jaskier is really there.  
He just wants to go home.  
-  
Jaskier is not sure for how long he’s been calling Geralt’s name but, when the sun has already set, he thinks he can see a dark shape stumbling in his direction. He clutches his dagger and calls out again: it could be Geralt, or it could be anything else: living with a witcher has taught him quite a lot about the creatures that like to take a walk past sunset, and swamps are never a good place to be at night.  
“Geralt”  
He calls, and the shape stops , tilts his head and fuck, it’s him. Gods above, it’s him. He’d recognize that head tilt everywhere.  
“Geralt”   
He whispers as the man appears in from of him: Geralt skin is so red it’s painful, cheeks flushed and eyes slightly unfocused, and all he wants to do is dump him in a tube full of cold water before his brain fries. He hugs Geralt to his chest when the witcher stumbles and calls the stable boy he asked to accompany him for help.  
"It's ok, love" He murmurs against his temple "I found you. It's ok. You're ok."  
-  
Geralt feels the cool silk of Jaskier’s shirt against his burning skin and breathes him in: he smells like salt and sea, like safety and love.

He smells like home.


	24. Come healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier himself had never needed to pay for company, his natural charm and boyish beauty working wonders on everyone, but it doesn’t work like that for Geralt: some people will try to seduce him just to boast about it later, others out of some distorted sense of pity that makes them want to try and tame the dangerous beast which, fuck you. And good luck with keeping all your fingers anyway.

O solitude of longing  
Where love has been confined  
Come healing of the body  
Come healing of the mind  
O see the darkness yielding  
That tore the light apart  
Come healing of the reason  
Come healing of the heart  
Come healing - Leonard Cohen

Let’s be honest: Geralt is sex on legs, and Jaskier can’t believe he’s the only one, beside a few lucky exceptions, that can see it. The man is fucking built, chiselled like a statue made by some artist with care, love, white marble and strength. He’s handsome and, actually, his white hair and golden eyes do nothing but add that certain something to his appeal.  
Yet, Jaskier has seen how’s he’s treated: before they got together, as in really together, he saw the looks that that prostitutes and women and men alike threw him. It was desire at first, but when they took notice of his eyes fear and disgust took its place and no amount of coin could change that. Sex can’t be good when your partner is scared of you, can it?

Jaskier himself had never needed to pay for company, his natural charm and boyish beauty working wonders on everyone, but it doesn’t work like that for Geralt: some people will try to seduce him just to boast about it later, others out of some distorted sense of pity that makes them want to try and tame the dangerous beast which, fuck you. And good luck with keeping all your fingers anyway.

Jaskier, now that he can do it, wants Geralt to have it with someone that loves him. That will be still there when the sun rises. That won’t expect payment for his deeds and won’t ask him about his scars.   
He’s seen Geralt let people manhandle him none too gently, now he wants to see how his face changes when when someone that loves him fucks him into oblivion.   
There, he said that. He wants to be the one that’ll help Geralt forget about monsters, blood and pain for a while. Wants his witcher to feel loved, for fuck sake. Wants to see him cry out and shudder in bliss. 

Shit he wants it to happen. He wants him so bad. But it’s hard, because how do you get close to someone that’s so touch starved he can’t even understand what being touched with love should feel like? So he starts with small touches, trying not to startle him: just because they’re together like that, now, it doesn’t mean that Geralt is less tense and more prone to be touched.   
Sure, he’s most relaxed than ever around him, and Jaskier feels honoured, but it’s still a far cry from the touching he’s experienced in other relationships: he brushes Geralt’s hair and plaits them every time he’s allowed to, because he loves doing that and it relaxes his witcher; he kisses his knuckles when Geralt keeps him close to sleep in a single bedroll, kisses his forehead and Geralt blushes every single time and, with time, Geralt starts touching him a lot more, and not just to keep him out of harms’way.  
Geralt’s arm starts sneaking around Jaskier’s waist or his shoulders, and it’s both possessive and endearing because it’s clear that Geralt doesn’t really know what to do with himself. He caresses his hands and hair whenever he can, kisses him and lets himself be kissed when the need arises, but their touches have been cast up to that moment and Jaskier still wants to see him come undone, drowning in love, care and pleasure. Jaskier just doesn’t know how to approach the subject, so all he can do is wait for the right moment and make sure it will be perfect when it happens.

Awfully romantic, that’s what he is. Desperately in love, too. Well sue him then.

When he gets back to the room they’re sharing, climbing up the stairs with his lute and a nice buzz due to the excellent ale of the inn, he finds Geralt asleep in the bath tube. And fuck, come on: he’s been telling him not to do that for ages. Does he want to drown? Please, it would be such a ridiculous death for someone like him. Can you even imagine?

He shakes his head, hands on his sides, and goes to wake him up when he stops on his tracks: Geralt turns his head, exposing his throat and parting his lips, and Jaskier is just mesmerized.  
This is the man I’m in love with and that loves me back, he thinks, and how did he get so lucky, really?  
He walks towards the witcher as quietly as he can, kneels behind his head and deposits a kiss on his forehead, smiling when Geralt’s eyelids flutter and two golden, tired eyes make their appearance.  
“Hey there, sleepyhead” He greets, and Geralt hums, looping one arm around his neck and kissing him fully on the lips.  
“Sorry” He mutters against his skin “I fell asleep”.  
Jaskier laughs and kisses him again: “At least you didn’t drown. Want some help with your hair?”  
Geralt hums happily and moves, allowing Jaskier to divest and sit in the tube behind him, the witcher sitting between his parted legs. 

And, oh gods above, Geralt’s hair is a mess.

Jaskier lathers Geralt’s unruly mane in soap and starts to untangle it with his fingers, careful not to pull too much and hurt his witcher: it takes him a while but in the end Geralt’s locks are soft and shiny, falling in waves in the water and on his shoulders. He looks relaxed so, muses Jaskier, why stop now? He uncorks the lavender oil and starts massaging his neck and shoulders, Geralt still pliant under his fingers, then goes down to his chest and belly and freezes, because his hands are wandering to a place he’s never touched before. He lets his fingers graze Geralt’s inner tight and the witcher shudders. So he does it again. For science. Obviously.

Geralt’s hand comes up and grips his wrist, and he’s ready to apologize when he sees Geralt wet his lips and rasp: “You don’t have to do it”.  
Those are the moments Jaskier feels like killing everyone that ever hurt his witcher. Sure, Geralt can be hard to be around sometimes, but this? This kind of reasoning is so engrained in his brain, this feeling of being unworthy, the absurd idea that Jaskier would do such an intimate thing out of duty or pity. It saddens him. It makes him appreciate the idea of finding all the people that made Geralt feel like this and kill them, one by one, in the most gruesome way. 

Geralt must have sensed his hesitation, because he’s tilted his head and is now watching him from behind a curtain of white hair. Jaskier smiles and kisses his shoulders, the back of his neck, his cheekbones and uses one hand to make Geralt rest his head against his chest, caressing his hair. Still, Geralt won’t stop looking at him.

“I want to” He whispers in Geralt’s ear, and watches as goosebumps arise on the witcher’s skin. Geralt gasps and melts against him, and Jaskier’s hand wanders between his legs.  
“I want you to feel loved” He goes on, moving his hand and watching as Geralt’s eyes fall shut “I want you to feel cherished, and I want to be there for you every time you’ll need me”.

Geralt’s breath is coming in small gasps and he bites his lips to stop any possible noise, but Jaskier shakes his head and bites his lobe and fuck, this is too much.  
“Nope” He hears his bard say “I want to hear you, mister. Let me hear you”  
And he’d strangle him, because this is too much. It’s too much and he’s so not used to this, but Jaskier bites his ear again and he lets out a broken moan.  
It’s small, and it’s quiet, but it’s the first time he’s ever vocalized his pleasure during sex in fucking ages. And it’s so weird, because he’s never let himself go like this, and it’s something hard to do when you’re used to keep an iron control on everything.  
But it looks like Jaskier knows what he’s doing, because a perfectly angled stroke turns him into a shuddering mess and he groans.   
It’s loud, and he just can’t stop it. He tilts his head up, ready to see his bard’s disapproving gaze at his show of weakness, but Jaskier is smiling down at him like he’s the fucking sun and Geralt can’t help but wonder what he did to deserve him in his life.  
Sure, his rational thoughts fly out of the window when Jaskier bites his neck and starts sucking on the skin. It will leave a mark. The mere idea makes Geralt’s chest swell with affection.  
“I want you to have this with me, because I love you” He hears. And something breaks inside him. Jaskier kisses the nape of his neck and watches him shiver “I want to worship you. Fuck, Geralt, I adore you”.

Geralt’s back arches against Jaskier's chest, breaths even quicker than before, and his hands scramble for purchase on the tub’s rim. Jaskier kisses his hair and starts pumping in earnest, feeling him come into his hand. Geralt’s head falls against his shoulder, exposing his face, and Jaskier gets lost in the vision of his witcher: mouth open, eyes shut tight, small puffs of breath escaping his lips and Geralt is the picture of bliss, a picture he wants to keep in his mind forever.  
“I love you” He repeats, kissing the skin behind Geralt’s ear “I need you to know that I love you”.

Geralt tilts his head and gives him a playful bite, and Jaskier finds himself pinned against the walls of the tub in seconds, by a very smiling witcher.  
“Love you too” Geralt rasps looking at him with awe, but then a feral smile takes the place of his wondering expression.  
“My turn”.


	25. Haunted by design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a loud noise, a bang, and you start running but you don’t know when you’ll stop, nor if you’ll ever be allowed to, because you’ll stop when you’re dead. And the run is full of obstacles, mud, blood and pain but you can’t stop.   
> Because if you stop nothing will make sense anymore. But running makes no sense, too.
> 
> So: can you imagine how it feels, how much does it hurt?

Those who worry suffer twice  
This I must concede  
I think it's time to close my eyes  
Slumber rescue me

I keep searching, I can't find  
Any kind of respite from the noise inside  
The clock is laughing, don't ask me why  
In the halls of my mind  
I'm still haunted by design  
Myles Kenendy - Haunted by design

He runs, and he fights. He’s been fighting for his whole life, running for his whole existence. And it’s been a long life, up ‘till now. Living like that has made him feel like it’s been even longer, and much more tiresome. He’s been jumping from contract to contract, from monster to monster since forever, and can’t really see a way out: monsters will keep on existing, people will keep on hire him, he will keep on fighting and running and it will be a neverending circle.   
And it won’t make sense, ever, because his mission has no end and no beginning: people have been fighting monsters since the world began, witchers have been fighting monsters since the world began, actually, and it makes him feel so tired, and restless, and guilty because he can’t save everyone, and furious, because the ones he saves treat him with contempt and run him out of towns, cities and villages without even letting him rest a second, take a breath, more often than not. To sleep a couple of fucking hours in a bed, and not in a forest where anything could jump out of the woods and attack him, so he has to sleep with one eye open.   
And it’s not really sleeping, that, is it?  
He has a stone lodged in his chest, and it’s growing heavier and bigger day by day, chocking him. Making him feel like he’s drowning on land.

But he can’t stop. Won’t stop.  
His life makes no sense if he stops, makes no sense if he goes on. It drives him crazy, makes him feel caged...and shit, can you imagine?   
There’s a loud noise, a bang, and you start running but you don’t know when you’ll stop, nor if you’ll ever be allowed to, because you’ll stop when you’re dead. And the run is full of obstacles, mud, blood and pain but you can’t stop.   
Because if you stop nothing will make sense anymore. But running makes no sense, too.

So: can you imagine how it feels, how much does it hurt?

He’s always fine. He never is. He lives in this constant dichotomy, where being fine means “I’m not dead yet, am I?”, lives trapped between what he is and what he has to be. He doesn’t even knows what fine means anymore, for fuck’ sake, and he’s appalled to find himself awestruck in those rare days when he’s actually fine: it’s enough to drive someone crazy.  
Now: try to do this for nearly a century, and to think that this will be your life until you’ll get slow enough that some monster will have a bout of good luck, and maybe all that will be left of you will be some creaking, whitened bones because no one will care when you’ll be gone.

I mean, you could have some respite, here and there, but it will be just some seconds in a long, tiring run. And you want to know what’s funny? You’ll spend those seconds worrying about their end, worrying about the fact that they will have to end, and you’ll be back in the pit, and it will be messy and bloody again and you won’t be used to it anymore so you’d feel better if those good moments never existed, so you wouldn’t even know what you’re missing.   
Fucked up, right?  
Right.  
I will ask again: can you imagine?

So, it’s no wonder Geralt is always so tense and ready to snap, yet collected and cold at the same time. And no wonder it has been so difficult for Jaskier to get close to him at the beginning: it’s been hard work, day after day of chipping away at Geralt’s reinforced mental armour, but what Jaskier doesn’t know is that he’s given Geralt something much more important than friendship, love and company. 

He’s given him motivation.

He’s given him a reason to keep on running and fighting and try to postpone his own demise for as long as he can. And it’s something that Geralt never experienced before.  
Jaskier holds him, makes him stop running, forces him to rest and be cared for and, in the beginning, it’s been so awkward because Geralt had no idea how to let himself relax and...well. Be cared for, in general. The idea of someone wasting their time on him, caring for him as if he was worth it, made him feel uncomfortable.   
And Geralt understands, in a moment of terrifying clearness, that he’s been waiting for Jaskier all along, for someone that won’t be scared to put his hands on his shoulders and push, because…

“Stop, Geralt. Stop. You have to rest”  
“Jaskier...”  
He mumbles, eyes wild and hair in disarray: he’s just back from a hunt and has been kicked out from the village right away, no time to take a breath or tend to his wounds. Jaskier could have stayed, a bard as good as he is is always welcome, but he could never abandon him so he left too, and now he’s being his stubborn self, keeping Roach still with one hand on her reins and one on Geralt’s ankle.

The thing is that Jaskier saw him sway on the saddle, tired and hurting, and wants to take care of him. It’s a desperate pull, right from the pit of his stomach, this strong need to care for the witcher. Geralt merely looks at him, strands of dirty white hair escaping his hair tie to fall over his eyes, and the bard is appalled to see how tired he looks.  
“I’m not going to let you destroy yourself” He states, steel in his voice, and Geralt starts.

Destroying himself, is this what he’s been doing all this time? Well, it could be, but it’s the only way of living he knows.

He looks up to the summer sky and sighs, dismounting and letting Jaskier tie Roach to a close branch, with enough free range to reach both water and fresh grass. Even his mare trusts Jaskier, now.  
Interesting.  
He takes a look around and has to admit that Jaskier has chosen the perfect spot to rest and recover: a small clearing with a creek and a huge, rocky boulder that will keep their backs covered should the need arise, protecting them from humans, animals and monsters alike. His bard is getting pretty good at living on the Path.  
Geralt must have been just standing there for a while, lost in his thoughts, because Jaskier huffs, shakes his head and says:  
“Will you come here or are you just going to stand there and look like a fucking statue?”  
The bard has already prepared their bedrolls, and where the heck was his head until that moment? This shouldn’t happen, should never happen. He can’t get distracted, has to be alert and aware or something, someone, might attack them and it would be the end.  
“Geralt?” Jaskier calls again, and there is a slender hand on his arm, inviting him to sit down on his bedroll. It’s only by sheer force of will that he doesn’t flinch “Come on, you look exhausted”.

He hums. He feels exhausted, actually. He lets himself be manhandled and feels the bard sit behind him, hears him rummaging in his satchel and then there are hands in his hair.  
“This is a right mess” Jaskier mumbles, pensive. There’s a beat of silence and then those hands are on his shoulders, pulling him backwards until his back is resting against Jaskier’s chest.  
“You’re too tall, even sitting”  
The bard admits, and Geralt huffs out a laugh. Jaskier starts brushing his hair with his fingers at first, disentangling the worst of the knots, then starts with the comb.  
And fuck, Geralt wouldn’t want nothing more than relax and enjoy his bard’s ministrations, but he just can’t: his eyes dart from tree to tree, his ears pick up every small noise. He just doesn’t know how to let go.  
Jaskier sighs.  
“Listen” He starts, putting the comb back inside his satchel and starting to plait Geralt’s hair, the witcher’s eyes never leaving the darkness starting to descend on the forest “I know it’s hard for you, but let me be your eyes. Just for this evening. You can rest now, and you’ll be much more functioning later”.

Which makes sense, but how does he do that? He turns around and the question must be written on his face, because Jaskier kisses his forehead, clucks his tongue and gestures at him to turn around again, back to the bard, and starts unclasping his armour.  
“This shit weights a ton” He grumbles as he frees his shoulders while Geralt takes care of the chest piece. Then Jaskier’s hands are back on his body, fingers drawing circles on his flimsy shirt and digging into the muscle. Geralt tenses again.  
“Geralt, calm down. It’s a massage”  
Geralt swallows and doesn’t move, abs tense and back stiff as a board, and Jaskier sighs again, getting up on his knees from his cross-legged position and hugging him from behind.  
“You can’t go on like this” He mutters, caressing his neck and throat absent-mindedly “You’re hyperaware. Tense. You don’t sleep, don’t let yourself rest”.  
He pulls him backwards again and, without his armour, Geralt is able to feel the bard’s warmth through his clothes. Jaskier’s legs come up around him and he finds himself cocooned in his embrace, his head resting on the bard’ shoulder.  
“I’m here, you’re safe” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt would like to object that they could be attacked in any moment, but he’s just so tired.  
“You need to let yourself sleep: it’s not night, yet, so sleep for a few hours. I’ll wake you up when it really gets dark”.

Geralt looks up at Jaskier, yellow gaze searching and just a bit confused, and bites his bottom lip. It’s such an endearing sight for the bard: Jaskier smiles and brushes white hair out from the witcher’s eyes.  
“Rest, love. Let go. Quit running”.  
So he tries, but it’s hard. Then the bard’s hands start digging in his shoulders muscles again, and Jaskier starts humming, and Geralt feels himself doze off. It takes a while, and he wakes himself up with a start every time he feels his guard slipping, but Jaskier is there. He’s always there.

He rests.

Jaskier looks at him, fond and careful not to wake him up: Geralt asleep is such a rare sight that he wants to drink him in, paint those parted lips and closed eyes in his mind and keep it there forever. He kisses his hair, keeps him close and starts humming again.


	26. Island

I don't want a flame  
I don't want to risk a fire that leaves a toxic waste  
But here we are again  
And I don't want to play  
Only want to breathe again  
Be free and let it end  
And I'll be an island  
And the shore where I stand  
Can be reached by more than waves  
I told my sharks  
Kensington - Island

There is a Botchling in the castle, Geralt is growing surer and surer of it: an unborn child not properly buried, turned into a life sucking abomination. A doomed creature that feeds on strength and blood of the soon to be mother wife of the rich noble he’s working for. Foul beasts, Botchlings: they can end up killing both mother and child still in the womb and, when threatened, they can turn into bigger beasts, something akin to Ghouls or even Alghouls.   
Geralt could try to turn this unlucky child into a Lumberkin, a protective spirit of the house, but he won’t even try: not when the Botchling has grown taller than him, strong like an ox and with teeth long enough to penetrate his armour and wound his shoulder, punching two twin holes through flesh and muscles.  
Geralt groans, pushing against the thing with all he has, and it looks like it’s enough because the Botchling shrieks, takes a step back and lunges again: it’s a second too late and Geralt’s silver sword gets through the rotting flesh of its would be face, the creature stops moving and stays there, dangling from the witcher’s blade, until Geralt shakes it off with a grunt.  
It could be worse he thinks, hacking the head of the creature as proof and examining his shoulder: nothing that can’t be fixed with some stitches and a couple of nights of rest. He brings the head to the nobleman to collect his prize, and sees him smile for the first time he met him.  
“Thank you, witcher” He says, looking at what’s left of the monster that was killing his wife and handing Geralt the coin he’s been promised. He even offers him hospitality, but Geralt knows that Jaskier is waiting for him at the inn, playing for patrons and coin, and doesn’t want him to get too worried.

He already worries enough, he thinks with a smile, pouch secured at his black leather belt and swords sheathed on his back.

Geralt exits the castle, crosses the courtyard and is ready to leave when two guards call out at him, brandishing a wine bottle.  
“Oi, witcher!” Screams one of them “Want a sip?”  
And he should have known. No one is kind with someone like him. With something like him. He should have known, because the bottle comes down, smashing against his temple as soon as he turns towards them.   
He doesn’t fall, not immediately, but they hit him again, a kick behind his knee and a second blow to his head, and down he goes.  
-  
When he comes to his coin is gone, and his head feels like it’s going to explode pretty soon, pounding like crazy.   
He feels around it and freezes because his hair is not there anymore, badly shorn right at the back of his head, barely long enough to reach his neck: they must have grabbed at it and just cut with their swords, then dragged him outside and left him there for who knows how long: it can’t have been too long, because no one found him (or maybe they did, and didn’t care?) and the torches that light the bridge over the castle’s ditch aren’t much more consumed than when he saw them the last time, right before having a bottle smashed against his head, his coin stolen and his hair shorn.   
He could still get back and look for the two guards, but they would be right idiots to be still there, and asking for the noble’s help is never a good idea. The man has paid him already, anyway: what should he do, ask for more money?

No way: he’s a witcher, not a charity case.

Geralt touches the back of his head again and his palm brushes against something embedded in his temple.   
Glass.  
He’s got fucking glass shards stuck in his skin. And his hair is gone. He will need a mirror to remove all the shards, but using a mirror means having to look at himself, and that’s not something he feels like doing right now: they didn’t just take his money, they meant to humiliate him with no reason. Deliberately and with purpose.   
And you know what? They fucking succeeded.   
Geralt forces himself to get on his feet, puts on his hood and staggers, gulping in air as his head threatens to explode all over again. Then looks at the road and drags himself to the inn.  
-  
Jaskier has just finished his performance when the inn’s door swings open and a familiar, hooded figure enters the common room: he smiles at the yellow eyes he can see peering from under the black fabric and bows with a flourish, thanking patrons and barmaids alike but, when his head comes up, Geralt is already gone.   
Which, weird.  
He usually stays in the common room for a drink after a hunt, unless he’s too badly hurt and fuck, Jaskier feels a cold shiver run down his back.  
“Very well, ladies and gentlemen!” He salutes between bouts of applauses “I will leave you in the hands of your good host! Drink and be merry!”  
The host smiles and nods, offering him a red wine pitch to carry upstairs, so he does right that: he runs upstairs and opens the door, leaves the wine on the small table in the corner of the room and starts, because Geralt is standing in front of the bed, hood still up on his head and hands fisted so tightly they’re bound to hurt later.  
Blood is trickling from his left arm, and the red drops spur Jaskier into action.

“Geralt, you’re bleeding” He mutters, eyes on the two puncture wounds in the witcher’s shoulder. When Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, he takes two steps and notices it all.  
The trembling shoulders, the tense muscles.  
Geralt’s lips, the only part of his face he can see, are a white, thin line.   
Fuck.  
There is something so wrong he can’t even start to understand it.

“Love, what happened?” He asks, keeping his voice as quiet as possible and, when he touches his arm, Geralt flinches.  
He fucking flinches and looks at him with round, dazed eyes with pupils blown so big the gold is almost gone from them. Jaskier freezes.  
“Geralt” He repeats, scared “You’re hurt. Your head is hurt. Please, let me see”.  
Geralt just stands there and swallows. Looks like he’ll have to take the matter in his own hands then: he goes to remove Geralt’s hood but two hands clasp his wrists.  
“Don’t” Geralt rasps and shit, he’s shaking.   
Now that he can see his face he notices the blood covering half of it.  
“Geralt, you need help. And it will be either me or the town’s healer!”  
Still Geralt doesn’t move. His eyes glance at him for a moment but his gaze falls back to the floor immediately. And it’s such a big, red flag that all the rage leaves Jaskier in a rush.  
He lifts one hand to caress Geralt’s clean cheek and he flinches again.  
So tense and scared.  
Jaskier’s arm moves upwards, fingers pushing against the hood.  
Geralt closes his eyes.  
And the hood comes down, revealing his shorn hair and bloodied head, glass glistening from the wound in his temple. He can’t see Jaskier, not while his eyes are shut so tightly, but he perfectly hears his gasp, the noise he makes covering his mouth with one hand.  
“Who did this to you?” Comes the bard’s words, and Geralt shakes his head, unable to use his voice. 

He doesn’t know who those men were. He doesn’t know why they did it. All he knows is that he can’t take it anymore: it hurts, and he’s not even thinking about his wounds as he stars shaking his head again and again, hands clasped on his mouth and eyes still shut because, to his horror, he feels tears start to gather against his eyelids and doesn’t know how to stop them.

“They cut your hair” Jaskier’s voice is now full of rage and hate “They fucking dared...they hurt you, and cut your hair” and he would like to say something on the line of “No shit, really?” but Jaskier’s hand is caressing his badly shorn hair now, and Geralt sobs.  
He can’t stop it and can’t help it: he starts crying, rage and pain pouring out of him and every sob, every one of them, hurts his already aching head.  
There are arms around him, then, guiding him to sit on the bed, and then to let his forehead rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.  
The bard keeps him there, grounding him, and kisses his temple. The one that’s not a mess of blood and glass.  
“Let it out, love” He whispers against his skin “Let it all out”.

And it’s so new for him. No one has ever told him that it was ok to cry, that he could do it and not feel ashamed. Weak.   
Because he had helped them.   
He risks his life for people every damn day, and what had happened that evening has had him reaching his breaking point.  
He can’t do it anymore. And he’s angry, and desperate. And...defeated.   
So utterly defeated.  
And ashamed, and humiliated.  
He just did his job, killed that Botchling for them. He kills monsters form them every fucking day.

A wrenching sob tears out of his throat and he shudders, still crying, because his head hurts so much. It all hurts, and it just won’t stop and he can’t breathe.  
He can’t breathe. There’s something in his lungs, and he can’t breathe.  
“Hey, easy” Jaskier cups his face in both hands, looking into his mismatched pupils “Easy, love. Breathe for me?”  
“Can’t”  
It’s a wheeze from his throat.  
“Yes. Yes you can. I know it doesn’t look like it, but you can” Jaskier explains, eyes soft and voice firm “In for six seconds, out for four. I’ll count for you”.

He does, enunciating every number loud enough for Geralt to hear it over the rush of his blood, the thumping of his frantic heart and the pain in his head, and he tries to follow. He coughs, chokes, wheezes and tries so hard, until the darkness around his vision subsides and he can hear Jaskier again.

“Why?” He asks then, and his voice comes out all wrong and raspy. More raspy then usual, at least. Jaskier thumbs at his cheek, trying to dry it, and kisses his brow.  
“Why, what?” He answers, letting Geralt fall against him and examining the wounds on his temple. He has to clean it as soon as possible, but Geralt needs to calm down first. The witcher shakes his head again, a new lump growing in his throat, and he can’t use his voice.  
He grabs his shortened hair and tugs.  
“No, love. Come on” Jaskier is quick to stop him from hurting himself, worsening the damage, but Geralt’s action speaks volume.  
“I don’t know why they did this to you” He answers, kissing the soft skin of Geralt’s wrists “People suck, I suppose”.  
Geralt snorts, and Jaskier counts it as a victory, albeit small. His witcher has been hurt and humiliated senselessly. He would let no one treat someone like that, and yet someone thought that hitting him, stealing his coin and cutting his hair would have been the perfect conclusion of a fun evening.  
He keeps Geralt close, one hand splayed on his back and the other on his head, and feels the blood stick to his fingers.  
“I need to clean you up, love. There’s glass in here”  
He says, quietly, and Geralt just nods. The huge amount of trust the witcher has in him is scary, sometimes, but he would never abuse it.  
“Can you sit on your own for a couple of seconds? I need to get some supplies”.  
Geralt nods again, heaving a great sight and, as soon as Jaskier stands, he folds on himself, cradling his head with both hands, elbows on his knees.   
It hurts to see him like that. Vulnerable. In pain.  
And Jaskier feels furious, rage making his blood boil and his stomach churn, because he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve to be shamed and hated and beaten and humiliated. He doesn’t deserve it and no one deserves him. His kindness and bravery. No one.  
He fights to keep people safe, and look what happens then.   
Revenge is high on his bucket list as he kneels down in front of his witcher and puts his hands on his knees, sewing kit and pliers waiting on the bed.  
“I won’t hurt you, love” He promises kissing Geralt’ knuckles “I’ll be as quick as I can, and won’t hurt you”.  
Geralt’s head comes up, wild white locks crowning him and fuck, his eyes are shiny again. Looks like the dam broke. He gives a single nod and steels himself as Jaskier comes to sit next to him, folds a cloth on his shoulder and grabs the glass shard embedded in his skin with the pliers. It feels like ages, because that damned thing is stuck in there, but it comes out in the end and blood starts flowing freely again. Jaskier tuts and presses a clean cloth against the wound, making him hiss.  
“Sorry, love. I’m so sorry. I’m going to clean it up stitch it, now”.

He’s so out of it that it stops hurting after a while, and Jaskier is asking him if he feels like standing up and getting inside the bath tub. He must have filled it while his head was elsewhere, he muses, and accepts the bard’s help.  
Jaskier hums as he sits in the water, goes to sit beside him and then there are hands in his hair. He tenses, and his breathing hitches.  
“Shush, love. It’s just me. Just your humble bard thinking about how to fix your hair and make you look like your usual sex on legs self”.  
Jaskier hears Geralt snort and smiles, kissing his neck and helping him to tilt his head backwards to wet his hair, mindful of wounds and stitches.  
“They’re still pretty long up here” He muses, fingers combing Geralt’s white locks, the other hand massaging his neck to keep him calm “Yes. I think I can work with that. Do you trust me, love?”  
Geralt opens his eyes and squints against the light, staring at him. His golden irises are still overtaken by mismatched black pupils. Jaskier will have to awake him very often, that night.  
“You know I do” He answers, and closes his eyes against the pain in his head. Jaskier smiles.  
“Sure, but it’s still good to hear. So” He kisses him on the lips and fishes a razor and a pair of scissors from his bag “Ready?”  
Geralt opens his eyes and regards the scissors, swallowing, but lets his eyelids fall shut again and forces himself to relax, humming.  
“Very well”.

It takes less than he thought, Jaskier combing and cutting his hair while humming under his breath and, when it all ends, he lets his muscles unclench.  
“All done. Wanna see yourself?”  
Does he? He’s not so sure, but he can’t keep on running from mirrors for his whole life, right? He sighs and lets his head hung low, missing the familiar brush of hair on the back of his neck.  
“Come on, love” Jaskier whispers, kneeling behind him with a small mirror in his hands “Tell me when you’re ready”.  
Geralt looks down at the water and his distorted reflection and bites his lip. Then looks up and stares.

Jaskier has done an awesome job, he has to admit it: he gave him some sort of undercut, the hair on his crown still long enough to be tied in a still wet bun, everything else clean shaven. His shorter hair brings out his eyes even more, though, and he’s not sure it’s a good thing.  
“You look beautiful” Jaskier whispers against the wet skin of his neck, brushing his fingers on his shaven head. Then he smirks and manages to look downright feral in the mirror, next to him.  
“And you look even more intimidating like this, my love. Those eyes of yours are mesmerizing”.  
He kisses his freshly shaven neck again and that, together with the smile still painted on his lips, does something to the lower regions of Geralt’s body. He hums, turning towards Jaskier to kiss his cheek, but the bard tilts his head and captures his lips instead.  
“You look downright edible, dangerous and sexy as fuck” He mutters against the witcher’s lips “And no one, no one will ever manage to change my mind”.  
Geralt freezes, panting, his damaged back pressed against the tub sending jolts of pain that he elects to ignore, tilts his head to the side.  
“I look edible?” He rasps, a hit of his true self coming back in his golden eyes, and Jaskier bites his lips.  
“Oh, my love” He murmurs, looking at him “As soon as you’re back on your feet I’ll show you what I mean. I will fucking devour you”.


	27. The lovecats

I love you, let's go  
Oh, solid gone  
How could we miss  
Someone as dumb as this?

The Cure - The Lovecats

The cat has decided that the witcher belongs to him, muses Jaskier nursing his warm tea. No ale for breakfast for him, thank you for offering. He’s been up all night to keep an eye on a recovering Geralt, and now that it looks like he’s on the mend he feels like he can breathe better, have something to eat and enjoy the view of a chubby cat cuddling his sleeping witcher. He wishes he could drive decently just to have the picture of a resting Geralt with a cat purring on his lap: dogs don’t really like him, but cats don’t mind being in his company. They must be kindred spirit, somehow. Geralt is a bit of a cat, thinking about it.

A big, grumpy, cat. Fluffy. Red. A big, fluffy, grumpy, red cat. He nearly laughs out loud at the thought, but then thinks that he could wake Geralt up or, even worse, disturb the cat, and stifles his giggles with a fist in his mouth.

“Oh, Oskar must really like your friend” He hears, and the innkeeper pokes her head inside the room, arms full of laundry and blond hair tied back. She smiles and shakes her head.  
“I’m sorry” She adds “If Oskar is disturbing you I can keep him downstairs”  
“Oh no, please don’t” Jaskier answers without turning around, eyes on the adorable scene in front of him “I don’t mind, the cat looks happy and is keeping Geralt warm, and Geralt...well, he’s asleep. Which is a small miracle on its own, actually”.  
The woman looks at the sleeping witcher and at the very relaxed cat and shrugs.  
“Well them, he’ll be covered in cat hairs”  
And Jaskier has to choke a laugh again. Oh, this is getting better and better.  
The cat opens one eye as soon as she leaves, gives a sleepy “meow” and stretches his front paws until he’s touching Geralt’s arm, nosing at his hand and come on.   
Jaskier is going to get killed by sheer cuteness.

They should get a cat, carry it with them on adventures. It could sit behind Geralt, on Roach, an stay with Jaskier while the witcher is on a hunt.   
A black one, possibly, so his hair won’t be too noticeable on Geralt’s dark clothes.  
And gods, this is so good.

“What are you laughing about, bard?”  
The cat is looking at him now, and Geralt has opened one golden eye to look at him too. They both have yellow eyes, it’s like being watched by a weird combination of cuteness and grumpiness, and Jaskier can’t resist anymore: he start laughing and fuck, it feels so good after having spent the whole night fearing for Geralt’s life.  
“What?”  
Geralt asks again, glowering, and Jaskier has to dry his eyes because it’s just too fun.  
“Oh, my love” He smiles, taking a couple of steps and going to sit on the bed. The cat throws him an annoyed glance but doesn’t move “My dearest, precious witcher. You really haven’t noticed yet?”  
Geralt looks at him, unimpressed, but when he tries to move his hand it bumps against something warm. And soft. And he stares.  
There is a cat. On his lap.  
A cat.  
There is a red, fat cat sleeping on his lap. He should do something about it but finds that he doesn’t really want to. The cat is warm and isn’t bothering him, so it could stay, right?

He hums, yellow eyes observing the chubby feline that turned him into his bed, and moves his finger in its fur.  
The cat starts purring, and Jaskier all but squeaks is delight.  
“Oh, this is so cute” He smiles “He likes you for real, then!”  
“Nah, he just likes to be petted” Geralt deadpans, but is secretly enjoying the company of the small animal. Jaskier gasps and shakes his head, offended on the cat’s behalf, and crosses his arms across his chest.  
“I’ll let you know that his name is Oskar, and is the most loyal of the house cats” He proclaims, one finger pointed at Geralt’s face “He slept on you for nearly two hours, after all”.  
Geralt hums again, eyes on the cat, and pets him again.  
“At least you’re warm”   
He mutters, and Jaskier nearly swoons because there he is: the big, scary witcher is talking to a cat.  
And the cat is purring.  
Fuck, it sounds like a snoring horse, but it’s really just the found of feline joy. Jaskier smiles again and climbs on the bed, brushing white hair from Geralt’s eyes.

“You look a bit like shit” He teases “How do you feel?”  
Geralt eyes him with one eyebrow raised and snorts.  
“Always so nice”  
“You know I always speak the truth” The bard mutters against his brow, lips pressed in a kiss against slightly fevered skin.  
“And yet you invent most of the contents of your songs”  
“Poetic licence” Smirks the bard, sitting back and looking at him with a critic eye. The cat eyes him back, moving his ears, and Jaskier can’t resist: he starts scratching his furry head, and the purring increases.

“You know, I could get used to this”  
He states, nodding at the dozing cat and to Geralt that, bathed in the early afternoon light, looks much more healthy: he’s still bruised, and his left eye is half shut and black, but that sickly pallor isn’t sticking to his skin anymore and it’s a positive change in Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt swallows and looks down at the small feline that is currently sniffing his thumb and then back to Jaskier.

“We’re not getting a cat. You’re not getting a cat”  
“Oh, come on” Jaskier whines “Why?”  
“Because”   
The witcher smirks, watching Jaskier huff and letting him find his place under his good arm. The cat yawns and settles again.

Oh, they’re so getting one.


	28. Blessed silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Would you kindly shut the fuck up?”  
> That’s the exact sentence that put Jaskier in trouble, to be honest. That, and the bucket of water he threw into the boys face, but let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

“Would you kindly shut the fuck up?”  
That’s the exact sentence that put Jaskier in trouble, to be honest. That, and the bucket of water he threw into the boys face, but let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

Trivia time: witchers potions are powerful stuff, absolutely forbidden to humans (to humans that want to stay alive, at last): they’re made to enhance an already mutate physique, a human body would probably melt.  
So: what happens when witchers down them like water because the easy contract they were supposed to take turns into a fucking disaster because yes, the townspeople were right, there was a vyvern in the woods. They just didn’t say that there was a young vyvern and two fucking huge adults that lived with it, its parents of whatever.   
Who cared.  
So Geralt had had to drink pretty much everything he could put his hands on in order to kill the happy family and survive, and the levels of toxicity in his blood has quickly grown from dangerous tu stellar in minutes.  
The vyvern family was dead, sure, and Geralt wasn’t even heavy wounded, but no amount of white honey cold stop the explosive migraine that came with an intoxication of such proportions.

Jaskier’s face, when he saw him come back, had gone from sheer relief to sudden worry, taking in his hunched shoulders and staggering steps.  
“Geralt, what happened?” He had asked, approaching “Are you wounded? Poisoned?”  
Geralt...well.   
Gerald had scrunched his face and shut his eyes, stretching his right arm towards him and all but collapsing against the bard’s chest as soon as Jaskier had taken his hand.  
And, honestly, scaring Jaskier to death.  
“Geralt?” He had repeated, alarmed “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”  
Geralt had just shaken his head and then a low whine had escaped his lips, and Jaskier had understood. If moving his head hurt him so, the problem had to be there.  
“Headache?”  
He whispered, pulling Geralt in to let him rest his head against his neck.  
The witcher hummed.  
“Too many potions?”  
Another hum.  
“Is it bad?”  
A third hum and a low growl: that was a yes in Geralt’s language.   
Jaskier nodded against the witcher’s hair, untying Roach with his free hand and throwing dirt on the small fire with his foot. Multitasking, that’s what he was.  
“Think you can ride?”  
He asked, keeping his voice as quiet as possible, and barely registering Geralt’s tiny nod.   
Well, then.  
“Keep your eyes closed, I’ll help you with Roach”.

Jaskier guided him as if he were blind, helping him navigate between saddle and reins, and cringed when Geralt let out a moan as soon as the change in altitude hit. The witcher pushed his thumb and his index finger against his temples and collapsed on Roach’s neck, the mare turning his head towards him and nibbling at his grey hair, trying to assess if her rider was ready, and probably trying to comfort him, too.  
And oh, how it tugged to Jaskier’s heart.  
“Hell’ be fine, girl” He reassured her, petting her nose “Let’s get him to bed, shall we?”

So, now, Geralt is in bed trying desperately to fall asleep, burying his face in the mattress and digging holes in his head with his fingers because, as everyone that knows how a migraine feels like, it’s fucking hard to fall asleep when your head is trying to expel your brain from your ears. It hurts so much you can’t sleep, and the idea of smashing your head against the wall sounds appealing after a while.  
Light hurts.  
Noises hurt.

So Jaskier opts for taking off his boots, after having helped Geralt out of his clothes and tiptoes to the other side of the bed, stretching along the witcher’s side and putting is fingers on his temples, drawing small circles and trying to soothe him. Geralt is trying to keep it together, but every small noise makes him flinch, and every flinch sends a jolt of fresh pain to his head.  
He’s give everything for some sleep inducing herbs, be he lacks those in his bags. And painkillers never work when migraines hit.   
He’ll have to suck it up and ride it out.

The thing is that, with his witcher senses, he can hear every fucking thing. A chair scraping on the floor in the next room? He flinches. Someone talks down the road? It fucking kills him. 

And then someone starts screaming and laughing right in front if their closed window and he jolts, groaning. He’s got tears in his eyes, for fuck’s sake, and Jaskier hates to see him in so much pain.   
He swears under his breath and casts a look outside: he can see some silhouettes through the closed blinds, but nothing more: he loathes the idea of leaving Geralt alone, even for a minute, but he needs those people to shut up if he wants Geralt to sleep.  
And he want his witcher to sleep because he won’t get better otherwise, and if he doesn’t get better he’ll just keep on suffering. 

Just then the noise outside grows up a notch and Geralt whimpers, curling on himself and fisting his hands so hard that his nails cut his skin, and it leaves Jaskier with no choice.   
Shit.

“Love, I need to get up for a minute” He whispers, letting Geralt bury his head in the pillow, and tiptoes to the window, opening it just a notch: he doesn’t want the light to hurt his witcher.  
Jaskier looks outside, and there: there are three young men chatting right under him.  
“Sorry”  
He starts, keeping his voice to a minimum but loud enough to be heard. Geralt twitches on the bed anyway and fuck, he feels guilty now.  
“Could you please keep it down? My friend is hurt and needs to sleep”  
The boys look at him, wide eyed, and smile.  
“Of course!”  
Answers one of them. So Jaskier nods his thanks and closes the blinds again.  
The blessed silence soothes his nerves and Geralt’s aching head, but it lasts just a couple of minutes. Then there is a bellowing laugh and the boys are at it again. And Jaskier knows how beautiful it is when you laugh with your friends, but do they have to do it right under their window?  
He tightens his grip on Geralt’s temples as the witcher curls around his pillow even more, eyes screwed shut, and sighs.   
“Sorry, love. I’ll try again”.  
Geralt doesn’t even move, just burrows his face against his tight and groans.  
“I know it hurts, love. Just a second”.

The blinds open again, Jaskier pokes his head out and looks at the boys without a word. The kid that answered before gets immediately silent and has the decency to look ashamed, but makes no move to leave.

What the fuck.

Jaskier gets back on the bed and the silence seems to last: Geralt is nearly asleep when loud voices can be heard again and, this time, the witcher whines loudly, hands on his ears, and Jaskier has had enough.

“Keep your hands there, love” He instructs, touching Geralt’s fingers. Then he gets up, fills a bucket with freezing, dirty water from their previous bath, and throws open the window.  
He all but unhinges it, actually.  
“Would you kindly shut the fuck up?”  
He roars drowning the boys in cold water, then shuts the blinds and goes back to the witcher.

“Sorry, love. I’m sorry” He soothes when Geralt’s eyes make an appearance between the fingers he’s digging in his head “I had to. Come here”.  
Geralt squints at him and tries to get his head on his lap, when a loud knock comes from the door. Geralt jolts again, chocking on a scream.   
What. The everloving. Fuck.  
Jaskier goes to the door, furious, and when he opens it he finds the innkeeper followed by a very wet, very pissed off kid.  
“What” He growls, shutting the door behind himself. The innkeeper points to the boy with a stubby finger and tilts his head, threatening.  
“This young men tells me you threw water at his friends and him”  
Jaskier looks at the boy and bares his teeth, crossing his arms on his chest and resting his back against the door. Geralt is suffering in there, and he won’t let them see him like that.  
“Yes. And?”  
The innkeeper looks at him, incredulous.  
“And? You think it’s an acceptable behaviour?”  
Jaskier’s glare could make a viper cry, when he answers.  
“I’ll tell you what I find unacceptable” He starts, voice low and dangerous “I find unacceptable that three kids kept on screaming under my window even after being asked to keep quiet. Twice” He glares at the boy, that can’t hold his gaze and starts burning holes in the walls instead. Jaskier’s eyes move from him to the man “And do you know who’s trying to rest in there? A witcher that got wounded because this whole village told him that there was just one vyvern to pay him less than what he’d have asked for should you have told him that there was a whole, damned family of those things!”

The innkeeper’s eyes are round and wide, yellow circles of fat around blue irises.  
“We didn’t...”  
“I don’t care” Jaskier stops him abruptly “I don’t care if you did it on purpose or not. I couldn’t give less fucks. What I care about is that Geralt is hurt and needs to rest, and this boy and his friends kept on making a fucking ruckus under our window. So get out of my fucking face right now if you don’t want to have to dead with a pissed off witcher on top of it all”.

The door opens and Jaskier is back on the bed, careful not to jostle it too much: Geralt can hear the bard sigh, and then two slender hands are massaging the back of his head.  
“Sorry, love” He hears Jaskier whisper “I hope I wasn’t too loud”  
Geralt noses at his leg   
“It’s ok” He rasps “It was fun”  
Jaskier snorts.  
“Of course you’d find it fun”.


	29. The last hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s not breathing. Gods, he’s not breathing.

Who'll save us in the end  
Have we lost our last hero?

The last hero - Alter Bridge

“Geralt!”  
Nothing.   
Geralt is still down, eyes closed, dead leaves under his back as he lies on the forest floor.  
And he’s not breathing, he’s not breathing, and his lips look blue already, still wet from the pond water he inhaled, and he’s still not breathing, and his hair are muddy and stuck to his head in dirty tresses and it will take ages to clean them up and Jaskier is fucking frantic because   
He’s not  
Fucking  
Breathing.

He’s not breathing. Gods, he’s not breathing.

So Jaskier starts breathing for him, pushing down on his chest and forcing air into his lungs, the smell of wet skin, dirty water and leaves getting stuck in his throat as he forces himself not to cry.  
To keep on breathing for Geralt, and his fingers feel frozen, he’s wet and cold and…

He coughs.

Geralt coughs, and Jaskier is quick to roll him on his side, hitting his back with bruising strength to help him expel that fucking, cold, muddy water from his lungs, and…  
And Geralt breathes.  
It’s a rattling thing, wet and painful, but he’s breathing and, since he saw him dragged down by the drowners he was fighting, Jaskier feels like he can breathe again, too.

Then Geralt coughs even more, and water starts flowing from his lips, and it’s so absurd, so absurd because that’s not where water should be, right? Water should stay outside, and get inside just if you drink it, right?  
Not like that, not like that, not like he’s drowning again, and Jaskier hits his back, and Geralt hacks out even more water and mud and then he can’t do it no more, and just lies there like a broken doll but he’s alive.

He’s alive.

Gods, he’s alive, and the sob that wrenches itself from Jaskier’s throat is so strong it hurts his head, his chest, his lungs because he could have lost him, and he can’t stop sobbing now that he’s started, so he drags Geralt closer to the fire, crawls to his witcher, lies down in front of him and cradles his head against his chest, kisses his closed eyes, listens to his breathing and cries for all the times he couldn’t do it, for all the times he was scared he’d never see him again.

He will help him out of those wet clothes in no time, get him better, warm him up.

Just. Give him a minute.

“Jaskier?”

He cries even harder.


	30. Northern lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Geralt, what...”  
> Jaskier starts, but Geralt reaches backwards with one hand and drags him until his back is pressed against the witcher’s chest, armoured arms hugging him and Geralt’s chin resting on his shoulder.  
> Well, he’s not complaining.  
> “Look up” The witcher whispers in his ear, and he does and oh.  
> Oh.

Desination outward bound  
I turn to see the northern lights behind the wing  
Horizons seem to beckon me  
Learned how to cry too young  
So now I live to sing  
The northern lights are in my mind  
They guide me back to you  
Horizons seem to beckon me  
Learned how to cry too young  
So now I live to sing

Reinassance - Northern lights

Geralt of Rivia is not an easy man, and the bard knows it all too well. He’s brash, sarcastic, hardheaded. Doesn’t really care for company nor niceties.   
He is, all in all, the image of the solitary warrior Jaskier has read about in his childhood books countless times.

Adventure, misfortune and loneliness cling to him like a second layer of skin, and you can’t really take your skin off, can you?

Jaskier has had a taste of Geralt’s unpleasantness countless times, but he’s tasted his kindness and loyalty, too. His wit and his beauty. Because Geralt is beautiful, no matters what people or even Geralt himself think: he’s got a magnetism that inspires respect, fear and awe.   
He’s fierce, and stubborn, and won’t ever kneel to anyone, king or bard he doesn’t care.  
He won’t kneel, and that’s that.  
He’s a figure of myth and a lonely creature that loves his solitude.

He’s Geralt, and he’s just as beautiful as they come. 

“Jaskier” He rasps “Come here”  
Jaskier yawns, eyes still on the flames, and shrugs.  
“What is it?”  
Geralt looks at him from the edge of the clearing they chose to camp, more in the shadows than illuminated by the fire light, orange flames drawing dancing shadows on his skin. Jaskier scratches his head and has to think about it because, honestly, it’s cold as fuck and the idea of leaving the warmth of the fire isn’t appealing at all.  
Geralt tilts his head and shrugs, turning back to the woods, and for a second manages to look...sad.

Just like a kid that wanted to show you something, but was denied the pleasure.  
Well, this really won’t do. 

Jaskier sighs and dusts his trousers, getting up and stretching his back.  
“Coming” He singsongs “What’s happening?”  
Geralt stops and turns around, a small smile on his lips, and tilts his head again, this time in the direction of the small path in front of them.   
He walks in the night with liquid grace, where Jaskier has to pay attention to every step he takes in the dark and nearly slams his head against Geralt’s back when he stops and just stands there, looking up at the winter sky.

What the fuck.

“Geralt, what...”  
Jaskier starts, but Geralt reaches backwards with one hand and drags him until his back is pressed against the witcher’s chest, armoured arms hugging him and Geralt’s chin resting on his shoulder.  
Well, he’s not complaining.  
“Look up” The witcher whispers in his ear, and he does and oh.

Oh.  
The northern lights.

He had never seen them before, had never been up north. The greenish traits of light dance, move slowly. They look still, but they move, they do, behind the clouds, turning them in big, opalescent, precious, gems.  
Geralt sighs.  
“We call this The Green Lady, at Kaer Morhen” He starts, eyes still on the sky, and Jaskier is immediately captivated by his voice “There are legends. Fuckloads of them”.  
Jaskier sinks in Geralt’s embrace, nodding.  
“Like what?”  
The witcher hums, wetting his lips.  
“Told you, there are too many”  
Jaskier looks up at the dancing lights and whines.  
“Please?”  
He feels Geralt shake his head, white hair caressing his face.  
“Nope” He answers, popping out the p. The bastard.  
“Geralt!”  
Geralt snarls.  
“You should sleep”  
“Could say the same about you”  
This time the witcher smiles, Jaskier can hear it in his voice.  
“You’re fucking impossible”  
Jaskier nods and kisses his jaw, happy at his victory, and Geralt sighs.  
“Since we’re up north, I could tell you what they think about it here”  
“Please do”  
“At your service”  
Geralt snorts and drags Jaskier down, to sit between his legs.  
“They say that those lights are the gods most fierce women warriors, Valkyries” He starts, looking upwards “They descend, in full armour, to gather the souls of those who died in battle, with honour and loyalty, and bring them to their realm”.

Jaskier looks up, and thinks. He thinks about what Geralt told him a lifetime ago. That witchers don’t retire, they grow slow and die. It’s a horrible thought, but…

“You’ll turn into light” He states, and he’s so certain of what he’s saying he’s astonished himself “You’ll be chosen by the gods and turn into light”  
Geralt freezes behind him, big hands stilling on the bard’s chest.  
“Sure” He deadpans, and Jaskier elbows him in the chest.  
Ouch. Armour.  
“You will” He keeps on, relentless “No one deserves it more than you”.

And it’s a lot to take in, really. Years, decades of hate and spite from people and then came Jaskier, that thinks so highly of him to believe he will be chosen by the gods to be part of that amazing light spectacle.   
Geralt feels his eyes burn, lets his forehead fall on Jaskier’s shoulder.  
“Foolish bard” He mutters and feels Jaskier’s fingers in his hair, then the bard turns his head and kisses his temple.  
“Love you too, sweetheart”  
“Hmpf”.


	31. Untouched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had started like this, many years before.

It had started like this, many years before.

“I’m fine”  
“No, you’re not”  
The witcher had growled then, yellow eyes flashing.  
“How would you know, bard?”

And it would have been scary for everyone, a threat made of blood and broken bones, but Jaskier had merely shrugged it off.

“Because you don’t look fine. Come here” He had gestured to the bed he was sitting on “What’s wrong?”  
Geralt had thrown him a downright evil gaze.  
“Are you kidding?”  
“What? No, I’m not” Jaskier had answered tilting his head “Why would I be? I just want to help”

To help. He wanted to help. He wasn’t scared, or repelled by him.

“Why?”  
The witcher had asked, and Jaskier had shrugged again, blue eyes never leaving his face.  
“You look in pain, Geralt” He had stated “Just...what’s wrong. Please?”  
Geralt had eyed him, grunted and left. Jaskier had decided to stay there and wait: after all Geralt had left his swords behind, and he doubted he’d leave without them.  
He had waited for a good thirty minutes, but then had heard Geralt’s steps up the stairs and the door had opened, revealing a tired looking witcher.  
“You mean it?”  
Geralt had asked, and Jaskier had nodded, watching the witcher as he just stood there, one hand on the door’s jumble, the other fisted so, so tightly. 

That’s when he had realized that Geralt always looked in pain. Tense. Vigilant. Hyperaware. How could he have missed it?

Geralt had wavered, still closer to the door than to the bard, and had sighed with one hand pressing down on his right temple. And Jaskier had decided that fuck it, he would have taken care of him. He had taken a couple of steps towards Geralt, palms up, and had stood there, waiting for the witcher to decide what to do.   
Geralt had grumbled something under his breath and shaken his head, grimacing, than had shut the door and let Jaskier closer. 

“May I touch you?”  
Had asked the bard and Geralt had nodded, feeling cool fingers on his forehead and temples almost immediately.   
“You’re too warm” The bard had muttered looking at his eyes “Do you always run this hot?”  
Geralt had shaken his head, a new spike of pain getting to his forehead starting from his neck, and Jaskier had clucked his tongue, disapproving.  
“Come on” He had said, taking his hand as if it were the easiest thing in the world and guiding him towards the bed “You have to rest. I’ll ask for something bland to eat and fresh water”  
The bard had helped him out of his armour and clothes, let him get under the covers and smiled.  
“Don’t move” He had said “I want to see you still in bed when I get back” And had left.

Geralt had watched him close the door and heard his steps on the stairs, and had felt strangely abandoned. He had tried to sleep, closed his eyes and breathed deeply, but still that absurd feeling wouldn’t leave. 

Because Jaskier wasn’t coming back, was he? Why should he want to...but then the door had opened, Jaskier coming in with a tray. The bard had smiled again, deposited the tray on the bed and locked the door, and Geralt’s expression must have been pretty obvious in his surprise, because Jaskier had stilled and asked.  
“Geralt? What is it?”  
The witcher had immediately diverted his gaze, but his curiosity was too strong to be ignored.  
“You came back”   
Had has observed, hand Jaskier’s brow had furrowed.  
“Of course I did, I told you I was going to fetch you something to eat, didn’t I?”  
Geralt had hummed, eyes still looking at the wall, and Jaskier had bit his bottom lip.  
“You were expecting me to leave?”  
Geralt had shrugged, still looking everywhere but at him, and the first crack had formed on Jaskier’s heart.  
“Oh, Geralt” He had whispered “I’d never leave you like that”  
Geralt had growled, but there was no bite in his voice as Jaskier had come to sit on the bed, wet a clean cloth with fresh water and folded it on the witcher’s forehead, drying the stray drops on Geralt’s face with the back of his hand.  
“You feel up to eat something?” He had asked “I got you some bread and warm broth”  
And Geralt had eaten, let Jaskier fuss a bit and sank gratefully in the pillow.

“You awake?”  
He had heard, and had hummed as Jaskier changed the cloth on his forehead. The bard had hummed in response.  
“I just wanted to tell you that you are safe with me” He had said “I know it will take time, and I’ll have to prove myself to you to gain your trust, but I swear you’re safe with me”  
Geralt had opened his eyes to slits and nodded. He had fallen asleep feeling a bit lighter for the first time.


End file.
